Honeyed Berries
by thiswordistooshort
Summary: Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon has a complicated name but a simple life. Until, that is, everyone in Skyrim drags her into their problems without returning the favor. To make matters worse, some jerk has decided to start murdering the most beautiful creatures in Tamriel and eating their souls like some sort of cannibal. What sane person could let that stand?
1. Living Meat

_b/c my attention span is about as big as a baby teacup chihuahua, i've got yet another story up and about_

 _happy hunting or such_

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1\. Living Meat

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"Halt!" a soldier cries, successfully halting my progress across the border.

I thought I was being as stealthy as a mudcrab, but it seems I have been bumbling through the undergrowth like a drunken cave bear if a common soldier— _border patrol_ , no less—has spotted me. I suppose it is a good enough start to my new life in Skyrim, but I'll be damned if I let this ugly beast of a Nord slap me in irons and drag me to the chopping block like some kind of war criminal.

With a huff of annoyance, I rock onto one hip and spin so that I can glare at the guard.

Surprisingly, he is neither an ugly beast nor a Nord, but a frail-looking Dunmer. I stare at him confusedly, realizing he is also not a soldier since he is dressed in shabby patchwork clothes and wielding no weapon. In fact, he seems to have nothing except the rags on his back and a strangely authoritative voice.

"Ha, ha!" the Dunmer laughs maniacally and slaps his bony right knee in mirth. "Oh, I'm just pulling your leg, my friend," he says in a manner far too cheerful and casual for a Dunmer. _I'll bet he's spent too much time staring at the moons._ "Welcome to Skyrim," he says happily as he lifts his arms and spins in an unsteady circle, "land of bad weather."

"But at least there's no volcano plotting to kill us all," I point out, and he giggles.

"I'd rather be killed by a volcano than suffer this blasted cold—oh, I'm pulling your leg again, friend!" he all but screeches. "I hate the cold but volcanoes are worse, especially the living ones, eh? Well, since you're here, I suppose the cold doesn't bother you, I'm certain… By Talos, I've been here too long," he mutters and scratches his head. A few clumps of black hair fall out from underneath his scraggly nails, but he does not seem to notice or mind. "Anywho, friend, you'd best be running along before someone screams so hard you get blasted into Oblivion."

In my opinion, that is the most coherent thing he has said so far, so I decide it will be good to leave on a high note. I give him a wave of farewell which he delightedly returns.

"Oh, and don't go to Helgen any time soon unless you want to get plotted on by a living volcano," he adds as I pass him by.

"Thank you," I say honestly, having no idea where in Oblivion Helgen is, but at least I will remember not to go there.

Probably.

The Dunmer gives me an exaggerated salute and moves northward, straddling the border without concern.

From what I have seen so far, I think I will fit in splendidly with the Skyrim natives, unless the Dunmer was an anomaly in this country. Either way, I am even more thrilled to be here than I was just a few minutes ago. I trot along happily for a few more minutes, not bothering to be subtle.

 _I mean, what are the odds that I'll get caught by more crazy Skyrim-ians?_

"Halt!" a commanding voice shouts out, but I just smile to myself and ignore it. _Oh, the Dunmer are a crazy bunch, aren't they?_ "I said halt!" the voice yells again, and I snort to myself. "By order of the Empire, you are under arrest for attempting to cross into Skyrim illegally!" he screeches, but I do not stop. "Wait! Dammit, listen to me!"

 _This one really isn't giving up, is he?_ A bit miffed, I twirl to glare at my new adversary, surprised to see that he is neither an ugly beast of a Nord nor a frail-looking Dunmer. No, it is an uppity prick of an Imperial jogging towards me and waving his sword wildly. His face is red and angry, but it does not look like he has any buddies with him. They must all be too busy putting people to the block to run after the beautiful woman crossing into their beloved wasteland of a country.

I allow him to catch up to me, a hand on my hip again, and he stumbles to a stop, breathing hard. "By..." He gasps out a few more breaths, close to wheezing. "By order... of the Empire... I demand that... you surrender yourself to the Legion's custody," he finally manages to finish.

For a moment, I consider his offer. It might be a good way to sightsee the country, traveling along in a prison cart with the Imp Legion, but I have never been a fan of imprisonment. With a soft sigh, I draw my mace and bash him hard in the head, a look of shock plastered on his face until it gets disfigured by the crushing of his skull. He falls with nary a cry. I wince at the blood trickling from his cracked skin and look away before I lose my lunch.

I do not rightly believe that I have eaten lunch, though, so I sit down cross-legged beside the corpse and pull some crusty bread out of one of my pouches, surveying it disappointedly. It is no feast fit for a woman such as myself, but it's food and it's not bloody. The thought of blood makes me a bit nauseous again, so I scarf down my bread as quickly as possible before standing up, brushing crumbs off my stomach, and flicking a small clump of skin off the head of my mace.

Messy business, crossing the border illegally, but it could have been much worse than a Dunmer missing part of his brain and an Imperial now missing part of his skull. Satisfied by my progress thus far, I snatch a coin pouch from the fallen soldier's belt, studiously ignoring the blood trickling down his head, and check its contents. This soldier was not a rich man—what soldier is?—but any money is useful when traveling into a new country.

Apparently, no one much cares about people leaving Morrowind for Skyrim, because that Imperial soldier is the only one I pass until I am far enough from the border to relax. When I feel safe to move out of the mountainous undergrowth, I happily step onto the first stone road I come across and follow it in a direction that I hope is not back the way I came. A few hours of walking leads me to various signposts all pointing towards Riften, which I can safely assume is a city since there are signposts pointing towards it. Either way, a destination is better than none when you are in a foreign country and have no supplies or basic living necessities whatsoever, so I follow the signs and make it to a decrepit wooden gate just as it turns to nightfall.

"Halt!" a man calls for the third time today.

This time it _is_ an ugly beast of a Nord, but he is neither a soldier not a civilian. No, from what I can tell in the darkness, he is a skeevy guard bored out of his skeever mind. Since my progress is barred by the closed gate which he guards, though, I am forced to obey his order lest I walk into the tall wooden doors. I halt, and he grins, eyeing me up and down with a lustful gaze that I am quite used to.

As I wait for the soldier to finish up with his ogling and get to the intimidation, I stare at the stone walls before me and wonder if I could vault over them. _Let's see…_ I muse. _I'll need some sort of pole and… Is that all you need to vault? A pole?_ I feel like there should be more ingredients, but I cannot think of any. Since I do not have a pole, however, maybe I could just climb over it without anyone noticing. _Honestly, how hard could it be?_

"Hm…?" I murmur when I realize the guard has started talking to me again. He glowers, and I notice that he has a buddy who steps forward to take the first one's place as a mouthpiece.

"Pay the toll to enter the city," he says gruffly. I blink at him, considering how easy it would be to bash his skull in, but I am not in a particularly bash-happy mood at the moment. _Maybe later._ "A pretty thing like you must make lots of money, eh?" he adds with a smirk.

"That's a kind thing to say," I inform him, flattered, and both guards find that hilarious.

"Tell ya what," the first guard leers. "Give me your name and maybe I'll let you inside."

"Heh, maybe we _both_ will," the second one adds, and they again fall into snickers.

"I'm Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I state—as is only polite when meeting new people—with practiced enunciation once their attention is back on me.

I keep my expression impassive as I watch their faces slacken a bit as they try to sound out what I just said. I pity them a little, but I always find it delightful to see how people react to hearing my name for the first time, as the confusion and dismay fills their faces when they realize they will never be able to refer to me as anything but 'you' or 'that woman with nice tits.' The power in having a needlessly long and complex name with too many syllables and consonants is even more thrilling than having a body that would make Dibella self-conscious.

"What was that?" the first guard asks hesitantly.

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I repeat patiently as is only polite.

"Come again?" inquires the second guard.

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu." All this politeness is starting to grate on my nerves.

The guards look at each other and then back at me. "I dunno," the first one whispers far too loudly for any subterfuge, "it sounds like a noble's name."

"Aye," the second whispers back, only the smallest bit quieter. " 'S not worth the trouble."

"So we just let 'er in, just like that?" the first retorts. "That'll ruin our reputation!"

"Let's just tell her it's 'cause she's sexy," the second says as though he isn't speaking loudly enough to reach my family in Morrowind. "No one's gonna fault us for lettin' in a pretty face."

"Clever," the first agrees. "I always knew you were the clever one, Robert."

Robert looks away embarrassedly and rubs the side of his head. "That's a sweet thing to say, Ted," he mumbles back. "It means a lot to me, ya know."

Ted pats his buddy on the shoulder consolingly. "I know it'll take time to work through what your da' told ya growin' up, but I just want ya to know you've got irreplaceable worth in my eyes, no matter what he's said."

Robert sniffles slightly and nods. "You're the best mate anyone could ask for," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "If it weren't for you, I'd be some upstanding soldier instead of a corrupt guard."

"Oh, I'm sure you would've gotten to crime on your own," Ted replies, embarrassed as well. "I just got ya there faster is all."

"Either way," Robert says, "I'm more grateful to ya than you'll ever know."

"Aye?" Ted murmurs.

"Aye," Robert confirms.

I wonder if I should stay silent, feeling as though this is some sort breakthrough in their relationship, but I really want to get in the city. I wave my hand a little to get Robert's attention, and he clears his throat and straightens his posture.

"We're gonna let you in the city 'cause you are a beautiful person on the outside—I dunno enough about you to comment on your internal beauty," he adds, "so that's not a factor here. Also, you should definitely repay me 'n Ted in the form of sex sometime."

"I will never do such a thing," I inform them gravely, "even under the threat of sanity."

Both guards seem rather despondent, enough that I almost give in, but they still let me through the gates with nothing more than a grumble. I mentally wish them luck on breaking down emotional barriers and conning money out of weak and innocent people.

I am sleepy from walking all day and eating nothing but some old bread, so the clear first stop is the tavern. Thankfully, it is right off the main square and cheerfully lit, the interior a hub of raucous laughter and loud conversation. It is nice to be in a crowd again after the empty roads to this backwater city, and these people clearly are not the uppity sort like every single Dunmer in Morrowind—my family excepted. I am a social creature by nature, and days traveling from my home with only myself as company is as dangerous as it is fulfilling. Truthfully, I never seem to tire of my own thoughts but my siblings always told me that I'm my own worst enemy, and I know that worst enemies, unlike normal enemies, are usually more annoying than fun until I kill them. Then, it's just a good time for everyone!

I glance about the place curiously, surprised by the diversity in race within the tavern. There are Bretons and Nords and Bosmer alike, a Dunmer mercenary in the corner, an Imperial singing badly while his Argonian friend eggs him on, and probably other mongrels and such that I don't notice. I do not stand out in the least, which is simultaneously offensive and a relief.

I maneuver my way to a small table against a wall, incidentally the only one still open. The moment I sit down, though, I understand why. This table, this innocently nondescript article of furniture, insults me with the worst offense a table could possibly commit against a hapless mortal. It _wobbles_.

I spend a few furious seconds trying to shove a wooden plate underneath the mismatched leg, but none of the dinnerware seems to be the right size to balance this damn thing. Just as I am about to throw something across the room in frustration, an Argonian woman approaches me. By the way she is glaring at me scuffing up the plates, she likely owns the place.

"If you would stop playing with the plates," she says sternly, "I can take your order."

I hesitate, vacillating between an intense desire to revenge myself upon the table and an intense hunger that threatens to force me into a dead faint. It is a close call but, with a last mournful look at the plate, I reluctantly comply.

"A tankard of beer," I decide hesitantly, "and something to eat." I am no good at making important choices such as these, but I have learned to accept it as one of my very few faults.

"And what would you like to eat?" the Argonian asks.

"Uh…" I muse for almost a half a minute, mind blank of an answer, until I forget what the question was.

"A tankard of beer and the house special, then?" the Argonian growls as I stare blankly.

"Oh," I remember vaguely. "Yeah, a bottle of mead and… sure, the food but without anything alive in it."

"Excuse me?" the Argonian hisses, clearly offended, and I blink at her as I try to recall what I said that would cause such a reaction. "You assume because I am Argonian I serve living creatures?"

Confused, I blink rapidly. "Eh?" I finally manage. "What's being an Argonian got to do with anything? I just don't eat meat."

She pauses, and it is her turn to be befuddled. "…By alive, you mean… meat? Cooked, dead animals?"

I nod, wondering what she is on about. _It's hardly an offensive request, isn't it?_ Maybe Skyrim-ians are offended by people who love animals and almost cry at the sight of blood. If so, then I will be ruffling quite a few feathers in this place.

"I apologize," the Argonian says stiffly, still regarding me with some suspicion but without her previous hostility. "I'll get that for you right away. If you need anything else, just call for Keerava."

"That's a good safe word," I agree.

"It's my name," she states dryly, and then leaves in a hurry.

 _Argonians have such odd names,_ I muse to myself while I wait. I do not have much time to muse, though, since Keerava reappears almost as quickly as she left, this time bearing a bowl of something that smells heavenly and a bottle of something that probably smells like beer. Sure enough, when she sets it in front of me, I sniff the bottle to find that it does smell like mead, which I think is what I ordered.

"Good choice, that," a friendly voice interrupts my aromatic excursion.

I look up to see a man slide into the seat across from me. He rests one hand on the table, and we both wince when it tilts towards him, slightly disturbing my soup's peaceful existence. The man retracts his hand gently, and the table once again leans towards me under the weight of my dinner. I bite back a surge of rage and instead begin eating my soup.

"You like soup too?" I ask him as I swallow my first bite. It tastes as good as it smells, and I cannot imagine anyone _not_ liking this soup. Or soup in general, to be honest, but this soup is especially extraordinary.

"Er, I was talking about the mead," the man corrects me a bit awkwardly, and I pause in my delighted gluttony.

Someone more interested in mead than this divine soup is someone worth inspecting, so I glance up to study him critically. He is a Nord, I think, what with his gutter accent and hard features, but he is not as ugly and leery as the other two Nords I have met so far. He has red hair that reaches his shoulders in unbrushed tangles, and he is wearing a set of dark leather armor that looks quite comfortable. Everything about the man looks comfortable, actually, from his friendly tone to his relaxed posture and nice sense of fashion.

I suppose I will not judge him too harshly about his soup comment now that I have judged him physically acceptable.

"I thought I ordered a beer," I suddenly remember as I stare at the bottle beside my bowl.

I glare at it skeptically for a few moments as though waiting for it to transform into a different drink, wine perhaps, but it remains a bottle of mead. Happy with this development, I lift the whole thing and chug it as quickly as I can. Sure enough, it's mead, and spiced mead at that with just a hint of cinnamon, but no strawberries. _Strawberry wine should be more popular nowadays, but one takes what one gets._

"A Breton who drinks like a Nord!" the man laughs, almost slapping the table heartily before he remembers that it will probably catapult my bowl of soup across the room. He instead leans across the table, careful not to bump it, to inspect my soup, wrinkling his nose a little as the scent reaches him. "But eats like a Wood Elf, I see," he grumbles, a bit put off.

"I'm half-Dunmer," I explain, and he stares at me quizzically.

"What does that have to do with…" With a shake of his head, he puts a smile back on his face and folds his hands in his lap. "Well, lass," he says amicably, "I noticed you the moment you got in here, and I just had to introduce myself."

He has not introduced himself, as far as I remember, but I understand his desire to speak with me. Everyone, myself included, loves speaking with me.

"The way you carry yourself…" He leans forwards with a wicked grin, but my attention has returned to my soup. _It really is good soup, but when is my strawberry wine coming?_ "You're not one for honest work, are ya lass?"

"Honestly, I'm not one for work at all," I reply after daintily slurping down another spoonful. "It's easier to just profit off others."

"Now that's what I like to hear!" the man laughs and almost thumps the table again. "Aye, lass, I think you're just the kind of person I'm looking for."

My spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, and I glance down to realize that the majority of my soup has departed. _What a waste of good food._ "It's nice to be wanted," I confess as I mourn my lack of soup. _Now where is that damn beer?_

"True enough," the man says with a chuckle. "And what's your name, pretty lass?"

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I recite as is only polite. There is a short silence during which I knock my spoon against the soup bowl and silently pray to the Daedra to fill it up again. _Daedra of refilling soup bowls, I conjure thee!_

"Eh, c-come again?" the man finally sputters.

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I say distractedly as I tap my spoon against the bowl more fervently, this time praying to the Aedra. _Aedra of bothering to do something that actually helps a human being in some positive way such as refilling soup bowls, I conjure thee!_

"Again," the man says, sounding a bit lost, "but more slowly."

When even the sickeningly benevolent Aedra ignore my desperate pleas, I look up at the redheaded Nord. He seems to be in pain, but that is only to be expected by someone hearing my name for the first time and also has red hair. I lay down my spoon and look at him intently, making sure to enunciate every syllable according to his request.

"Vil-lai-er- _ar_ -lih-lee," I begin, but have to suck in a deep breath before I continue on. "Mil-iv- _il_ -see-uh Led- _vah_ -see Lie-sis- _sis_ -ah-ris _Suh_ -thar-on _uh_ -vuh _How_ -suh Law- _loo_."

He leans back in his chair, not seeming to be satisfied yet. "And... what do your friends call you, lass?" he asks confidently.

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I reply just as confidently.

He snorts in what might be considered laughter among the lower echelons of society. "Don't have many friends, do ya."

"I have all the friends!" I retort with a huff.

The man eyes me suspiciously, but shrugs after a moment. "...Right. What should I call you?"

Frustrated, I mirror his position but cross my arms so that he _knows_ I'm frustrated. "I _just_ said!" I remind him, emphasizing my words with my spoon. "Valirerlillie Mil—"

"Okay!" he cries with hands raised in surrender. "Okay, I heard you." He clears his throat and rubs his bristly chin thoughtfully. "Right," he muses, "now how to shorten your name..."

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss," I recommend helpfully.

"Not helpful, lass," he grunts to my dismay.

I bite my lip and try to think of something shorter than my name that is still my name. "That's all I've got," I admit.

"Vil... lai... er..." he murmurs, and I mentally applaud that he has managed to remember even those first three syllables. "Oh!" he gasps with a snap of his fingers. "Liar!"

I look around anxiously, a hand immediately resting on the mace leaning against the wall beside me. "Where?"

The man waves his hand in some kind of calming gesture that works like a charm. "That's what I'll call you," he explains. "Liar."

I blink and consider bashing him upside the head with my mace, but it does not seem worth it. "Okay," I agree.

"Okay?" he echoes with no small amount of confusion. "No argument?"

"You didn't ask for my opinion," I chastise him, "so I didn't give it."

"Eh. Okay, true," the man admits. "I guess your name is Liar from now on."

"Alrighty then."

The man chuckles again and regards me with his friendly smile. "So, Liar," he says cheerfully, "how did someone get a name such as yours?"

Incredulous, I stare at him in silence for a few moments until he becomes clearly uncomfortable. "You," I inform him slowly, wondering if I have actually stumbled across someone with a memory worse than mine.

"No!" the man grumbles. "I mean your long full name."

I scrunch my eyebrows together this time, still wondering if he is pulling my chain or honestly this stupid. "…My family," I answer.

The man sighs loudly and rubs his face as though I am being the stupid one. "I mean, why does it have so many syllables and such?"

"Oh." I sit up straight and place my spoon into the wooden bowl where it traditionally belongs. "Well, mum was a Breton and they all have a dozen syllables in their names, so she gave me my first name. Dad's a Dunmer and they all have a dozen syllables in their names, so he gave me my second name. My older sister decided she wanted to name me too, so that's how I got my third name, and then my brother decided it wasn't fair my sister got to name me, so that's how I got my fourth name. Since I was born in Morrowind, I'm from dad's family and house, so that's how I got my family name and house."

"I'm damn sorry, lass," the man says sincerely, and I acknowledge his pity as justified. "How long did it take you to learn how to say it?"

"A really, really long time," I sigh. "Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm saying it right at all. Or spelling it right." I twirl my spoon around the damp bowl thoughtfully. "It doesn't really matter, I suppose. Today, I think it's V-A-L-I-R-E-R-L-I-L-L-I-E, new word, M-I-V-L-S-E-A, new word, L-L-E-D-V-A-S-I-E, new word, L-Y-S-S-Y-S-S-R-Y-S-S, new word, S-apostrophe-T-H-A-R-O-N, new word, O-F, new word, H-O-U-S-E, new word, H-L-A-A-L-U, end."

The man stares at me, overwhelmed by the onslaught of information he just received. "You… didn't need to spell it out," he says.

"I think I got it right, at least," I say a bit proudly.

"I should hope so!" he exclaims. "That's an important thing to know, lass!"

I pause in my spoon twirling to give him my full attention. "Why?"

"How else will people know it's you?"

I pout and return to playing with my spoon. "No one else knows how to spell or say my name, so what difference does it make?"

The man muses that for a moment before nodding. "Good point," he concedes.

"And nice to meet you," I add.

His eyes widen as though he only now realized he has not introduced himself like he intended to from the start. "Oh, I'm Brynjolf. A pleasure."

"Nice to meet you again," I say again as is only polite. "I'm Liar."

"A pleasure again."

Feeling charitable towards my new friend, I begin to offer him my soup before remembering that it is gone. Momentarily stumped, I then recall that I am in a tavern. "Here, I'll buy you an ale," I say cheerfully as I look around for the Argonian. "Keerava!" I shout over the din of the bustling tavern. "Keerava! Keerava?"

The grumpy Argonian shoves herself over to my table and gives me an undeservingly exasperated look. "Yes, what?" she snaps. "What is it?"

"Three bottles of mead, please," I answer.

"Comin' right up..." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "What was your name again?" she asks.

"Liar," I reply proudly, and Brynjolf bellows out a laugh.

Keerava looks at me suspiciously, her arm frozen in the middle of clearing my empty bowl and bottle. "What?"

"Liar," I repeat. "My name. Liar."

"Charming," she grumbles and proceeds to grab my dinnerware.

"It's not like I chose it," I explain to her, wondering why she is so hostile. I discreetly hold onto the spoon, just in case I will need it for some future tapping or twirling.

When Keerava leaves without another word, Brynjolf turns to me accusingly. "I thought you said a tankard of ale!"

I try to think back to mere minutes ago, but my thoughts turn up blank. "Oh." I shrug. "I guess I changed my mind."

Brynjolf raises and eyebrow at me. "Ah," is all he says in response.


	2. Cold and So Blasted Cold, Cold, Cold, an

_im a romantic at heart. chchcheers. happy suching and hunt..._

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2\. Cold and So Blasted Cold, Cold, Cold and So Blasted Cold, Cold

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The best thing I can say about Skyrim is that it is cold, cold, cold, and so blasted cold. Otherwise, it is a wonderful place filled with strange people and even stranger ruins and politics and things to attack. The cold, though, I love. Bretons and Dunmer are not supposed to like the cold, so a mongrel between the two should _abhor_ the cold, but here I am, basking happily in the biting wind and wearing little in terms of clothing.

Oh, I have all the important bits covered, but Skyrim is much less prudish about this kind of thing. Nords don't really seem to give a whit about anything other than arguing about their civil war, while Dunmer in Morrowind never shut up about elven dominance and their innate superiority over everything. A strong sense of superiority always seems to come with an emphasis on etiquette, and I have never particularly excelled at that. It is for that reason, and a few others, I suppose, that I am here in Skyrim, basking happily in the biting wind and wearing little in terms of clothing.

When my fingers start going blue and the rest of my body can't feel a thing it's so numb, I decide I ought to head back before my extremities start dropping off. Nothing kills a good mood like a few crumbling fingers and toes, as my father had fretted when I told him where I was going. Speaking— _er, thinking_ —of which, I have not contacted my family once in the entire month I have been here, so I ought to pen a letter before my father and siblings die of worry. With that in mind, I trot down the treacherous, half-hidden path that winds through the hilly landscape just east of Riften.

I may have only been inside this one city, but I have decided that it is my favorite in Skyrim because of the sheer number of nooks and crannies hidden away in every single building. A couple weeks ago, I determined that I would make it my goal to explore every single one of these nooks and crannies and cobblestones in this delightful city before I leave, and it seems as though tonight will be my last here. It is unfortunate, but I have an entire country to explore and only all the time in the world to do so.

"Halt!" my new friend, Robert, yells as I approach the gate. He smiles—or, rather, leers—so that I know he is joking.

"Pay the toll!" Ted, my other new friend, adds with a grin. "C'mon, girlie!"

I giggle right back and draw my mace. When I swing it around a bit, nearly smacking poor Ted in the nose, both of my new friends look panicked.

"O-or, you could stay 'n chat," Ted stammers. "That's, ehm, good enough, aye Robert?"

"Aye," Robert hastily agrees as he stares at my mace with wide, fearful eyes.

"I love chatting," I admit. I thoughtfully rest my mace across one shoulder and think about various conversation topics. Nothing comes to mind, so I yawn.

"Er, so, women are nice, ain't they?" Ted says in the silence. Robert frowns at him, but Ted does not seem to notice. "Even if you get a tease, she'll lighten up once ya get 'er to drink some mead with ya."

"That's true," I muse. "Mead is light."

"Would ya like to drink mead with us?" Robert asks eagerly. "Ya know… to lower your inhibitions enough that you'll do something of a sexual nature that you'll regret?"

"Mead is good…" I murmur blankly, distracted now. "I want something good…"

"Drunk women with lowered inhibitions are good," Robert points out. I smile at the two of them and nod prettily.

"Good luck drinking inhibited women," I tell them. "I'm gonna drink uninhibited, but not women probably."

I trot past them and push against the gate. Behind me, I can hear Ted tell Robert hesitantly that they don't need drunk women if they have each other, and Ted sniffles something in reply. Pleased that I have done a good deed today, I plan tonight's adventure.

First, though, since I am thinking of mead for some reason, I must get drunk. No point in exploring with a head on my shoulders, after all. The local tavern, the Bee and Barb, has had my frequent patronage since I crossed the border, and I have also bumped into that Brynjolf character there a few more times. He is charming as ever and he seems to enjoy listening to me, which is something I am thoroughly unused to. On the other hand, since everyone knows redheads are demonic Daedra-eating Aedra worshipers, his unusual tastes start to make sense.

 _Maybe it wasn't redheads at all,_ I muse as I enter the beautifully boisterous tavern, _or maybe he isn't a redhead at all_ _—_ _oh, for Oblivion's sake, I can't remember what color his hair is. Or why it matters, but I suppose since so many good foods are red, the color can't be so bad._ From what I can remember, the Aedra are the bad ones with all the silly shrines everywhere. I think that Mara one has a red shrine, which is a dangerous color for hair.

Disregarding the thought that an Aedra could be a beautiful redhead, I scan the tavern for the redhead who is not Mara. I do not see his funny self anywhere, so I find a table, any table other than the wobbly one from my first night here, and plop myself down in it. Keerava realized weeks ago that it is no use taking my order, so she just comes over with some sort of alcoholic beverage and vegetable dish. She rarely stays for conversation, which is a terrible shame, but she has also been kind enough to warn the more aggressive patrons not to approach me after I inflicted six different cracked kneecaps and a broken plate paired with a bruised skull.

It was the plate that inspired Keerava, I know, since she gave me quite the lecture about respecting other people's property and then told me to move my mace into full view of everyone so that they might think twice about trying to fondle my breasts. Apparently, the Thieves Guild does enough damage as it is without some random Breton determined to ruin the dinnerware. I apologized by returning the spoon I kept, but that seemed to do nothing but irritate her more.

Tonight, at least, she returns my wave with an exasperated but not malicious one of her own, placated as always after I cheerfully compliment her cooking. I sip my alcoholic beverage—it tastes like ale today, but Keerava, the dear, may have added some honey just for me—as I fall into a bout of musing. By Oblivion, I hate musing, but sometimes I cannot help it.

I have a somewhat low tolerance for alcohol, but especially ale, which always seems to clear my head enough to allow coherent thoughts to break through. It always makes me regret drinking it, the bastard. Sober me just does not have the same logical decision-making skills as tipsy or, Daedra forbid, drunk me.

My thoughts land on Brynjolf right now, or, more specifically, his crafty insinuations about a like-minded group below Riften. I have decided he must be referring to the pollution in the water under the docks, even though he does not seem to be insulting me. In fact, he has been quite impressed with my pickpocketing and lockpicking skills after he persuaded me to demonstrate how I earn money without working. I informed him that it is easy and anyone can do it, but he reminded me that not everyone can jiggle their ample bosom in someone's face so they do not feel your hand in their pocket. I fervently disagreed and complimented his flowing locks, and he laughed as though I were joking. _These Nords and their senses of humor will never make sense_ _—_ _of humor_ _—_ _to me. Heh._

I realize that I consider both clever Brynjolf and grudging Keerava friends at this point, and it makes me a little sad that I will be leaving Riften soon and abandoning my newfound buddies to their boring lives without me. _Oh, damn me, this is why I hate thinking._ I hate feeling sad and serious and having epiphanies. The few things I never forget are usually the ones drunk me does and thinks.

On that note, I suppose I ought to eat my soup and grilled leeks so that the delightful taste stays with me forever.

Once my stomach is filled with wonderful food and my brain with annoying thoughts, I drop a few coins I stole from Keerava earlier that week onto the table and step over a couple of collapsed drunkards so that I can bask in the chilly outdoors again. As expected, the night is beautifully and bitterly cold and I can barely see fifty feet in front of me. Perfect time for exploring.

I know full well where I am headed, so I casually swipe a pair of water-resistant boots from Grelka's stall after I pick the lock on the hatch where she stores her wares overnight. The boots are a little big for me, but I just stuff them with a few coin pouches lying in Grelka's strongbox and they fit fine. Quite satisfied with my purchases, I lock the strongbox and hatch again and remind myself to thank Grelka if I remember to sometime in the distant and unforeseeable future.

And now, after a few minutes of stumbling through the dark and winding streets and falling down a couple of rotten stairs, I stand in front of Riften's sewers. I have been putting this area of the city off since day one here, but I promised to explore the whole city, and explore the whole city I shall.

I take a deep breath of fresh air that smells like rotten fish and rancid water, and I wonder if it is the last breath of clean air I will ever taste. With that chilling thought in mind, I press a strawberry-scented cloth my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday to my nose and pull open the rusted door. The smell of rotten fish and rancid water emanates from the disgusting depths of the sewer, and so I steady myself by taking a long whiff from my beloved cloth, bid the clean air farewell, and step into the slippery tunnels.

The sewers are stinky, dark, and surprisingly inhabited. Sure, I expect the skeevers skittering about, but not the various people apparently squatting down here. In fact, there is one area that even has a tree growing out of a miniature garden with butterflies and everything. I am so entranced by the strange sight, that I do not even notice the knife-wielding screaming woman until she slices my arm a bit and I reflexively bash her head in with my mace.

It takes me a few more minutes to drag my gaze away from the sparkling tree to look at the knife-wielding screaming woman and see if she is actually dead, but since her head has been caved in, I do not think I need to check her pulse. Thankfully, though, my slightly inebriated state allows me to gaze upon gallons of blood with nary a note of nausea.

After skeevers, blubbering fools, knife-wielding screaming women, and a verdant underground garden, I know I have seen it all. Just in case, though, I continue plodding through the damp and disgusting misery of a sewer, noting the odd lack of actual sewage, and find myself at what seems to be the last door. The tortes are starting to wear off already, as I can feel the beloved fog returning to my beleaguered mind.

 _Who in their right brain would muddle about in a sewer drunk?_ Not I, surely, so I must remember to avoid the tortes— _no, the strawberry wine_ _…_ _the mead? The jams? The molasses? Lasses. Brynjolf. Red. Strawberries. Wine. Strawberry wine?_ _Ugh, what in Oblivion is going on and why does the air smell like shit and strawberries?_ I pocket my birthday present cloth so that now it just smells like shit.

There is a door in front of me, a metal one that seems out of place in a sewer, so I pull it open and toddle through.

After skeevers, blubbering fools, knife-wielding screaming women, and a verdant underground garden, I know I have seen it all, except now there is a tavern. Oh, I think I am so clever and smart when I'm drowning in the drink, but here I am, certain of no more surprises, and back in the Bee and Barb. _For the love of dremora, how in all the Daedra did I get back to where I started? Or, no I started on the dock somewhere under the city_ _—_ _a dock under the city? What silly story did drunk me make up?_ With a sigh, I heft my mace and step forwards.

xXxXxXx

"More knife-wielding skeevers and screaming tree murderers," a voice called out, echoing loudly across the large domed room.

Everyone moved at once: Delvin bolted to his feet with fork and carving knife in hand, Vekel grabbed his broom protectively and hid behind his bar, Tonilia readied two enchanted axes she had recently 'acquired,' Vex dropped into a crouch and silently drew her daggers, Dirge woke up with a start, and Cynric choked on his ale. Once the voice faded, the only sound was Cynric's coughing as the alcohol burned down that pesky breathing part of his throat.

 _Damn_ , it hurt.

Once he could function with only a couple coughs here and there, Cynric stood up, ignoring the disdainful glare of Oh-I'm-So-Sneaky Vex, and drew his bow. He nocked an arrow while soft but unsteady footsteps approached the light that filtered through the Ragged Flagon's makeshift skylight. Dimly, Cynric cursed Dirge, the man who was supposed to be guarding this place but was instead sleeping on the job—"My name will be the last thing you hear before they put you in the ground," Cynric's ass.

When the intruder stepped close enough to be seen, Cynric balked.

The woman was absolutely stunning.

Cynric had gazed upon pretty women, beautiful women, statues of Dibella, and now _this_ woman. Everything about her physical form screamed femininity, from her generous curves to her soft facial features and narrow shoulders. She looked like a Breton, but she did not have the hard, muscular form that they generally shared, something that was easy to see given her scant clothing. She was wearing a black brazier that seemed more for lifting her breasts than covering them, and her entire midriff was exposed right down to her navel. There sat a pair of red, billowy pants that looked like they belonged on a Redguard and accentuated her lower endowments _very_ well, and the pants were tucked into a pair of shining, elegant oilskin boots.

What seemed out of character, however, was her hair. It was a beautiful ebony color, but unkempt and cut raggedly, as if she had chopped it herself with wool shears and no mirror. Underneath her uneven bangs, she gazed upon them all with a thoughtful expression from large and slightly slanted eyes that rested above cheekbones set a bit higher than the average Breton's. Her nose was small and shapely, her lips curved into a slight pout, and her chin delicately tapered but not sharp.

If he were being completely honest, Cynric thought she looked like an exotic whore.

Cynric swallowed hard, trying his hardest not to think too hard about that, and he hardly hard—heard—Dirge's voice growl out a command for the woman to stop and disarm. Cynric finally noticed the mace the woman was gripping in her left hand, a large monstrosity of a thing studded with jagged spikes and rusted nails— _wait, is that string and lettuce?_ —that might be glinting with blood.

Exotic whores did not carry bloody maces and slog through the sewers, he realized, and then he aimed his arrow to her heart. A shot to the chest was harder—more difficult—to dodge, even though that chest was a sight to behold…

"If you don't want people to get in," the woman was saying to Dirge as she idly swung her mace at her side, "you should lock the door."

"The door _is_ locked!" Dirge snarled, and the woman looked honestly surprised.

"…The door wasn't locked, though," she countered. "I walked in…" She gasped suddenly and lifted her free hand to her mouth in shock. "Oh, it _was_ locked!" she realized. "I'm so sorry! It's just when I see a locked door I unlock it without thinking; it's gotten me in trouble a couple times." She laughed and lifted the heavy mace in one fluid motion so that it was now resting on her shoulder, the wicked spikes behind her head. "Once, I thought my room was my da's room but it was locked so I unlocked it and my da' was in there but—" She suddenly broke out into a fit of giggles which masked anything she was saying. "Isn't that hilarious!" she crowed at Dirge. "Ah, but where are my manners," she said seriously and then fell silent.

Everyone waited, but the woman only stared blankly into the distance for a few moments.

"Wasn't the door locked?" she said abruptly, and Cynric slowly lowered his bow. "I have a problem with locked doors," she admitted.

Since it seemed no one was jumping at the chance to tussle with this gorgeous and quite odd specimen of a woman, Cynric decided to try his hand. He returned his arrow to his quiver and his bow to his back before stepping forwards cautiously to stand by the still-tense Dirge. "Are you saying you… _instinctively_ … picked a master lock?" he inquired skeptically. "Just…" He snapped his fingers. "Like that?"

The woman stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Cynric noticed that her eyes were an odd shade of amber that seemed to glow when they caught the light. "What's a master lock?" she asked, her pouting lips falling into a confused frown.

"Oh, just the most difficult lock to pick," Cynric snorted, unable to tell if this woman were joking or not. "Nothing special."

"Really?" the woman replied, her eyes narrowed as if she could not tell if _he_ were joking or not. "I didn't realize that some locks were more difficult than others. They all just open."

"Who in Talos' name are you?" Dirge hissed before Cynric could even comprehend what the woman had just said.

"Liar," she retorted confidently.

"What did you just call me?" Dirge nearly yelled, taking a threatening step forward. The woman did not even blink, just looked a bit baffled.

"My name," she stated as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Liar. Nice to meet you." She held out her hand as if to shake, but neither Dirge nor Cynric decided to take it.

"How did you find us?" Dirge demanded while the woman, Liar apparently, just kept her hand extended patiently.

"I haven't heard of any new recruits," Cynric added.

"Eh?" Liar queried, still befuddled. "I was just exploring. I didn't really want to go into the sewers, but I got some new boots and then I drank a strawberry and an ale—or, no I got the ale before I drank the boots and the wine was in the strawberries—and so now here I am." She frowned deeply. "And there was honey somewhere in something too. Swirling about like sewage... ugh, ew."

Everyone was silent as they tried to process the string of words until the stillness was broken by a door closing nearby.

"What's all this commo—lass?" Brynjolf exclaimed as he turned the corner into the Flagon. "Gods, I wasn't expecting to see you here!"

Liar smiled at him vacantly, lowered her outstretched hand, and then looked around. "Am I back in The Bee and the Barb?" she wondered aloud. "I wouldn't expect the tunnels to lead there."

"No, lass!" Brynjolf replied with his usual jubilee. "You're in the Ragged Flagon. Welcome to the Thieves Guild."

"I thought I was in Riften," Liar said uncertainly, and then her eyes grew wide in wonder. "How big _is_ this sewer?" she whispered.

Ignoring her, Cynric spun to watch Brynjolf approach. "You know this lunatic?" he asked dryly.

"Oh, I prefer madman," Liar corrected amicably, "or mad _woman_ if you like extra syllables, but since the whole point is to get rid of extra syllables, I don't see why you'd want them, but I don't suppose we always choose like what we want, eh? Or do we not want what we like? Dremora below, how do we know if we want to like?"

She returned her gaze to the distance and chewed on her lip. Cynric did not doubt that the conversation was continuing within her mind, but he was relieved she was being quiet for now. The other Guild members relaxed slightly, Vekel even poking his head over the edge of the bar to stare, and everyone but Vex sheathed their weapons.

"Aye," Brynjolf answered Cynric as though Liar had not spoken. "I've been watching her for a while now. I was getting ready to recruit her, and here she is."

"She said she was exploring," Cynric supplied, and Brynjolf laughed heartily.

"Ah, lass, you're still determined to visit every cobblestone in Riften?" he asked Liar. She blinked rapidly and Cynric could almost see her trying to register Brynjolf's words. Suddenly, she grinned and pinned him with a surprisingly steady gaze.

"I can't break a promise," she said cheerfully. "At least not since I made the promise."

"Promise? To who?" Cynric asked carefully, not sure if he really wanted to get sucked into a conversation with her.

"Me," was her reply.

Cynric rolled his eyes, still not completely convinced that this woman was not playing them for suckers, but Brynjolf just chuckled and shook his head. "You've got a good sense of honor, lass," he said, "and you've proven yourself like any recruit does, so let's visit Mercer."

"Another city?" the woman gasped. "Do these sewers connect all of Skyrim?"

"No, lass," Brynjolf said patiently as he led the way to the Cistern. "Mercer is the leader of our guild."

"The one in Riften?"

"Aye."

Very curious at how Mercer, a man with no patience and too much temper, would react to this strange, rambling woman, Cynric decided to tag along. A quick glance about showed him that everyone else was returning to their mead or dinners, although Vex was still watching the pair keenly. Liar and Brynjolf were chatting amicably as if they had known each other for years, and Brynjolf was able to keep up with her nearly incoherent tangents with apparent ease.

Cynric followed close enough behind to listen in. He made it about five sentences or so before he lost the thread of conversation when it turned to sewer tortoises and strawberry turtle cakes. She seemed to have some sort of word-association problem paired with a horrid memory, but she carried a big, scary-looking mace covered in string and rusted spikes that she hefted over her left shoulder effortlessly, and that ruined her otherwise sweet and simple countenance.

It was then that Cynric noticed her arms were taut and muscular and the rest of her visible skin was clearly toned. Speaking of, Cynric had at first thought it a trick of the light, but now that he was closer, he was certain. Her skin was gray. Not significantly so, but the tint of her pale complexion was definitely corpse-ish. If had to guess, he would say that she was half Dark Elf, which would explain the other slight anomalies in her appearance like the slanted amber eyes and the high cheekbones, but her mother must have been a Breton for her to look so much like one.

This was a curiosity to Cynric, as mongrels between elves and humans were quite rare. Neither race particularly wanted to associate with the other because of a superiority complex on both sides.

Mercer was, as expected, unimpressed. If you handed that man all the gold in the world, he would gripe that the brightness of it all hurt his eyes. And apparently, if you handed him a strange and distracted new recruit, he yelled at Brynjolf. Brynjolf, as usual, took it well, simply waiting for Mercer to run out of breath before bothering to explain anything.

"—and if you think we're going to waste more time and more money on some halfwit dressed like a cheap whore, then I was dead wrong making you my second!" Mercer finally finished angrily.

"Thank you," the woman said demurely after silence fell. No one was quite sure what she meant, so they all just ignored her.

"Mercer, you know we're down on our luck," Brynjolf began, "and this lass is one of the best lockpicks and pickpockets I've ever seen. Sure, at first impression she seems a bit…" He paused and looked Liar up and down as if trying to find a non-insulting word to describe her.

"Disturbed, incomprehensible, mad, witless, erratic, dysfunctional, broken, not-all-there, touched in the head, or maybe just batshit?" Liar offered helpfully. Her voice was cheerful but there was an unexpected ferocity to her gaze that even caught Brynjolf off-guard. As quickly as it had arrived, however, her focused eyes faded back into their slightly dazed state, leaving everyone feeling about the same. "Sorry, friends," she said in the same tone. "I think I'm still a li'l tipsy from all the alehouse skeevers."

"Sorry to hear that, lass," Brynjolf said, and Liar grinned at him.

"Not your fault Keerava's so good at not eating skeevers," she stated. "It's their blood you gotta watch out for. Her strawberry—no, it just _tasted_ like honey—ale packs a punch, eh?"

"Aye, I've been on the receiving end of too much to drink," Brynjolf said with a chuckle, and Cynric was beginning to realize that one conversed with this woman by ignoring half of her words and just stuck to their basic idea, if there even was one. "Anyway," Brynjolf said to Mercer, who had returned to glowering at his open expense reports, "this one's a bit odd, but we're not in a place to be picky right now. Instead, why don't you give the lass a simple job and see how she does?"

Brynjolf, ever the diplomat, received a curt nod in response, and then Mercer ordered the girl to do a few shakedowns.

"Throw in some blood and guts and just a couple entrails and we've got ourselves a deal," Liar said gravely, and then she scrunched up her nose. "Ugh, ew. I must still be drunk."

Mercer just glared, so Brynjolf placed a hand on the woman's mace-free shoulder and led her back towards the Flagon. "No killin'," Brynjolf stressed as he passed by Cynric, tossing the younger man a knowing wink.

Cynric found himself blushing just a little bit. Gods, the woman was gorgeous, no matter how batty she was, and he did not at all find her ramblings somewhat endearing at all. She really was beautiful, though.


	3. A Penny For Your Food For Thought

_i got my first reviewwwww! you are a beautiful soul, my friend, and i wish you luck and prosperity in all your endeavors._

 _little schpeal ahead:_

 _i wrote the first chapter just for shoots and guggles b/c i felt the enigmatic inspi r a ti on but then i was like fuck it i've got one chapter, might as well just hunker down and write a full damn story._

 _essentially, this was just a parody of if you took a mary sue and then bashed them in the head, how shit of an mc would they be? and thus liar was born._

 _all to say that i didn't expect anyone to actually read this, so i'm in love with everyone here rn even tho you're forcing me to write the most difficult story i've ever written. jesus, liar's not good at committing to a plot so i gotta drag her along by the ears. i've got most of the arcs planned, but moving liar to the proper places without compromising her fickle character is a challengeeeeeeeeee. i love it. mush, doggos, mush!_

* * *

3\. A Penny For Your Food For Thought

* * *

"I thought you were leaving," Keerava says a mite disapprovingly as I flounce into her bar. I am flattered that she remembered such a thing, so I return my mace to its sheath on my back. I have to take it off and lean it against the wall if I'm sitting down, but I am not here to sit down for once.

"I still am," I inform her, "but it seems like I've got just a little bit more of exploring to do before I head out. I found some people living in the sewer and they told me to beat some folks up or something, but you're my favorite so I'm not gonna do that."

Keerava narrows her eyes and then gasps slightly. "You're with the Thieves Guild now?"

"No, I'm with you," I point out. When she does not have a reply to that, I shrug. "Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know that I was supposed to get some money off of you for a debt and maybe smash up a few of your plates, but I already scratched a couple of your plates and took your spoon so I think I've got it covered." Keerava still looks suspicious, but her death grip on her broom handle loosens a tad. "So, you owe a dozen septims, right?"

"…A hundred," she replies hesitantly.

"Even better!" I exclaim. "A dozen septims might have been a stretch, but I can handle a measly hundred. Alrighty, then! I'll just pretend I threatened you and you handed me the money…" I pull the coin pouch with two hundred septims that I actually did threaten out of the others and transfer a hundred of my own into it. "And our business here is concluded, eh?" I beam at her, and she smiles slightly back. "If anyone asks, though, tell them I said I'd bash your head in, yes?"

"I… thank you," Keerava murmurs, shock clear on her face. Her smile widens into a motherly sort of pride. "Next time you're here, drinks are on the house."

"Where's the house?" I inquire. "What if it rains? Do we really want to be on the roof?"

Keerava rolls her eyes and shoos me with her hands. "Now go before you ruin this, girl."

"Okay," I say, still a bit baffled. "I'll… see you on the roof then?"

"No, just…" She sighs and shakes her head. "Forget about the roof. I'll give you free drinks the next time you come here."

"Oh!" I gasp. "That's even better than drinking on the roof! Thank you!" I wave to her, and she waves back as I return to the streets of Riften.

Satisfied with my successful completion of a job that I do not actually remember taking, I return to the sewers and slog my way back to the Flaccid Rabbit. It is a strange name for an underground tavern in Mercer, but I suppose I'm not one to talk about strange names. _I mean, where the hell did I get 'Liar' from?_

When I make it back to the door that is supposed to be locked, I jiggle the handle to find that it is in fact locked. With a soft huff, I pull out a pick and a knife and work on it for a few seconds until all the tumblers click into place. I open the door this time to find a man leaning against the wall just inside. He is opposite the swing of the door so I thankfully don't hit him in his nice face—and he does have a nice face from what I can see under his hood.

He looks Breton, like the angry man looking at books but not like Brynjolf, with pretty blue-gray eyes and some neatly-trimmed facial hair that frames his strong jaw. From what I remember, I have never seen him before, but that's really not saying much at all.

"You really _do_ have no trouble with that lock," he observes with a hint of awe in his voice.

 _Ah, his voice._ It has a nice, calming tone that immediately draws my attention and somehow manages to keep it. _I remember this voice._ It was the one that stood next to the grumbling meat head and chatted with Brynjolf and me. I think he was the one who was ogling me the most as well, but it was hard to tell because of all the ogling that was going around.

"I never have trouble with locks," I answer.

Everyone seems so impressed that I can open this particular door, but no one else has ever complimented me on my ability to open doors that don't want to be opened. Most of the time, I get threatened by guards or yelled at, but the angry Breton whose name sounded like a city is the only one who seems angry here.

The man laughs at my reply and looks me over with a grin, but not a leery one. He seems honestly interested in me as a person, similar to how Brynjolf is. "I used to be the best lockpick here," he says, "and then you show up and throw me off the pedestal."

I am not quite sure what he means by all this throwing nonsense, but I nod. "I'm sorry," I say graciously.

That gets another laugh out of him and he shakes his head while gesturing that I cross the threshold. He escorts me up the ramp to their little tavern and I take a seat when he does. I am delighted to find that neither the chairs nor the table are wobbly.

"Unlike some people,"—He looks pointedly at a sulky Imperial woman glaring at me from across the tavern—"I don't fault you for being good at what you do. Ah, thank you Vekel," he murmurs as a different man sets a couple tankards onto the table. I expect my companion to take both, but he pushes one over to me. I poke at it suspiciously and sniff it, but it does not seem to be ale, so I drink it down.

"This is mead," I realize after I drink it. "And it's the same mead Keerava serves. We _are_ in the Bee and Barb."

"No, no," the man sitting across from me chuckles. "It's Black-Briar mead. The Black-Briar family has Riften in its pocket, so just about everyone around here sells their mead. You'll find Honningbrew at times, but they're not much competition-wise."

"I didn't realize briers were in competition," I admit as I consider my empty tankard. "I suppose some are more spiny than others, though."

"Uh… right, sure," he answers. "Oh, I'm Cynric."

I smile at him a bit vacantly as I wonder why he doesn't take off his hood. "Liar," I reply as is only polite. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but the chair between us suddenly makes a loud scraping noise as someone plops down into it.

"Liar, eh?" the interloper, a bald Breton man, says. He has a supremely leery grin as he looks me over, eyes lingering on my chest before moving upwards again, pausing on my lips, and then meeting my gaze. "That's a good name for this profession. I'm Delvin."

"Liar," I say as is only polite. "Nice to meet you."

"And you as well, pretty thing," he replies with a smirk.

"Thank you," I say seriously.

"It's not flattery if it's the truth, eh?" he shoots back.

I am not sure if that is a correct statement but I can't think of how to disprove it. Cynric clears his throat, glaring at Delvin who raises his tankard in some kind of salute. I feel like there is a silent conversation going on between them, but I don't understand the non-words. _Oblivion's ass, I barely understand regular words at times._

"Strawberries, honey, and cinnamon," I say loudly, and my two companions stare at me silently. "You were speaking without speaking," I inform them, "so I needed to make sure I could understand words and you weren't actually speaking words but I just couldn't comprehend them." I fold my hands in front of me on the table and lean forwards as though planning to tell them a great secret. "Can you repeat what I said?"

"Strawberries, honey, and cinnamon?" Cynric replies slowly, his eyes suspicious as he searches for the trick.

Relieved, I lean back in my chair and drain my tankard only to find that it is already drained. _Well, I suppose I always have to take the good with the bad_. On the one hand, I can be sure that I am speaking and understanding words at the moment, and on the other I have no more briers to drink. At the sound of something sliding across the table, I refocus my eyes to see Cynric pushing his tankard to me. He gestures that I take it, and I gladly pour it down my throat _. I should really find this brier competition and take their mead, because this stuff is the shit._

"You like drinking, eh?" Delvin asks with amusement.

I place the tankard back on the table and shake my head vehemently. "Gods, no," I breathe. "I just like to drink."

"What?" Cynric asks. "You like to drink but you don't like drinking?"

I pause to comprehend their words, and then understanding hits me like a falling house. "Oh, I thought you said something about being drunk," I reply. "I hate being drunk."

"Glad we cleared that up," Cynric laughs.

He watches me, his pale eyes twinkling in the flickering candlelight, and I blink under the intensity of his gaze. It is not uncomfortable. In fact, I feel like basking as he studies me with an honest curiosity. There is no disdain or bafflement or pity or amusement as though I am a small child that must be patted on the head and showed the door. He is trying to understand _me_ , and not simplifying my existence into a derogatory word or two.

In an even better mood than I was after talking to Keerava, I smile at my two new friends—why I seem to be befriending all the Bretons in this place, I'm not sure—then chug the mead from Delvin's tankard. Without a backwards glance, I stand and leave for the door that leads to Mercer. I hear Delvin grumbling a bit about his mead which does not make sense since he offered it to me. I distinctly remember someone sliding their tankard to me, and it must have been him because I remember that it was a Breton and he is a Breton.

With that in mind, I seek out Brynjolf and the only Breton here I have not befriended: the shout-y man. It's just my luck that they happen to be standing together and talking quietly with one another in a manner that looks as though the topic is something important and sensitive. Since I am even more important and very sensitive, I trot right over to the shout-y Breton's desk and place a tankard there. I do not remember picking up a tankard, but I suppose it makes as good a gift as any, even though it is empty and really tankards are useless without alcohol or pretty flowers in them.

Brynjolf and the shout-y Breton stop talking abruptly and look at me, Brynjolf with a bemused expression and shout-y Breton with blatant irritation. They look at the tankard as though it is supposed to mean something, so I fish out the coin purse with the extortion money and drop it in.

"Drink up," I say as though I had planned this the entire time.

While Shouty grumbles about how that doesn'tt make any damn sense, Brynjolf dumps the coin purse into his hand and then spills the coins onto Shouty's book. I can't help but wonder how in Oblivion Shouty is supposed to stare at it now without being distracted by the shiny gold. The two spend a moment counting the approximate number of septims, and at least Brynjolf looks pleased. Shouty just grunts disapprovingly and stares at his book which he now cannot read because of the shiny gold covering all the words, but he still studies it as though he can see through the gold. For all I know, he can see through gold, but I am not particularly convinced of the fact.

"Good job, lass!" Brynjolf says appreciatively and thumps me on the shoulder. "There won't be any bodies turnin' up, right?"

I nod, and then pause. "None turning up because of me," I correct him cautiously. "I can't say no bodies are gonna turn up at all, because I'm sure the turnips will be pushing daisies sometime."

I remember vaguely that I wanted to do something else that has to do with the job I just did which had to do with threatening people for their money— _oh!_ I shuffle through the little pouches hanging off my belt until I find the one that holds the threat. I pull out a hand-sized pure gold statue of Dibella and hand it to Brynjolf.

"I got this too," I inform him as he admires the treasure. On the other hand, he could just be admiring Dibella's lascivious body that was sculpted in great detail, and I wouldn't blame him for it.

"And how'd you get this, lass?" Brynjolf asks as he shoots Shouty a grin of triumph. Shouty huffs but he eyes the statue with grudging satisfaction.

"Well, one of the victims didn't want to cough up, so I bashed some pretty things in his store until…" I trail off because something seems wrong with this story _. The statue wasn't destroyed, was it?_ I glance at Brynjolf's hand to see that the statue has not in fact been destroyed, so I restart. "Wrong person," I say, and Shouty scoffs. "Well, one of the victims didn't want to cough up, so I grabbed her statue and threatened to steal it and so she gave me the money."

"…And you stole it anyway?" Brynjolf inquires slowly.

"Oh," I realize. "I suppose I did." I shrug, and Brynjolf falls into a bout of hearty laughter.

"I _told_ you she was good, Mercer!" he crows, apparently talking to the city even though he is looking at Shouty. _Strange person, this one. I should try to befriend him sometime._ "She taught them all a lesson, got the gold, and still brought home some extra loot! Hell, she didn't even keep it for herself!"

"That's an option?" I ask him hopefully.

"No," Shouty snaps. "It is not an option, girl." He turns his glare to Brynjolf next. "She did what we told her to, which is nothing to be so damn overjoyed about. All this proves is that she can follow simple instructions, not that she has any real skill."

"That's true," I say peacefully. "I didn't really feel like a thief. Just a loan shark. Not that it wasn't fun," I add hastily before they start getting any ideas that I don't like threatening people and bashing up their places with my mace.

"Glad you agree," Shouty says suspiciously, and he stares at me with a thoughtful expression on his face. I blink at him patiently, still coasting on my good mood from new jobs and a friend well done. "Goldenglow," he finally says while Brynjolf gasps.

"Scarletsparkle," I retort, not about to lose this game and, since neither man has a reply, I can only assume I have won. _If he had gone with Indiglow, he might have come out on top._

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Brynjolf asks Shouty, and Shouty glares back. "Not even our little Vex made it in."

"Last I remember," Shouty snarls, "I was in charge here. Are you questioning your Guildmaster's decisions?"

Brynjolf holds up his hands appeasingly, but he does not look particularly satisfied. "Alright, lass," he says to me now. "Your next job is to sneak into Goldenglow Estate, empty a safe, and burn three beehives."

"Oh, no thank you," I reply, having stopped listening the second he said "sneak". There is a moment of silence between all three of us, and I wait patiently for someone to break it. _Perhaps I should just leave._

"You don't have the luxury of picking and choosing jobs, recruit," Shouty shouts. "Either do the Goldenglow job or get the hell out of my guild!"

I scrunch my nose up at him, but I do not want to be kicked out of this place just yet. I have many new friends here already, and I am still confused about where these sewers lead. "I'm not a sneak thief," I tell him anyway, just in case he changes his mind. "I pickpocket and lock picks and bash heads in, but I'm not sneaky."

"Well then," Shouty says maliciously, "I guess you're not Thieves Guild material."

I sigh despondently, but I am always a fan of being materials. Eventually, I nod. "Fine," I grumble, "I'll empty the beehives."

Shouty sends an eyeful of daggers my way, but only speaks to Brynjolf. "I swear, Brynjolf," he growls, "if this girl keeps talking to me—dammit, _near_ me even—I will toss both of you in the canal."

"I can swim," I inform him.

"Brynjolf! I swear to Nocturnal, I will make sure to add a brick necklace!"

Brynjolf hastily grabs my forearm and tugs me away from Shouty. He does not say a word until we are back in the Rabid Frigate, and then finally lets go of my arm. "You might want to stay away from Mercer," he says sheepishly. He's not very… personable."

"And the Guildmaster thinks I'm deaf," I add as I trot back into the candlelit tavern.

Cynric and Delvin are still where I left them, chatting with one another, and they smile when I enter so I return to my previous seat. Brynjolf takes the one across from Delvin, and now our table's all full of friendship.

"He only talked to _me_ to say that I can't keep what I steal," I add. I aimlessly reach over to Delvin's plate and grab a chunk of bread, ignoring the man's cry of askance. "Odd for a Thieves Guild," I muse, "unless that's an ironic name and everyone actually just gives things back to people, which would mean that I did _not_ do the last job right."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Cynric says, waving his hand dismissively. "The man's got a stick the size of your mace up his ass, but he's a lot worse than usual right now. He's generally a good guy, just stressed."

"Aye," Brynjolf agrees. "The Guild's been down on its luck for a while, so he's working harder than anyone to fix that." He nods to the others. "She's got the Goldenglow job." Cynric hisses in sympathy, and Delvin frowns before fumbling for a scrap of paper and sketching on it with a small stick of charcoal.

"Chasing away new recruits doesn't seem like a good way to fix downed luck," I point out in a somewhat rare moment of clarity. No one has a reply to that, but I am quite sure it's because I am correct and not because what I said made no sense or that I only said it in my head.

Maybe.

Dismissing whatever revelation would come from this train of thought as inconsequential, I chew on my newly-acquired and well-deserved bread and consider my options for this Indiglow-Sparkle job. Sneak thievery is not an option. Sneak thievery is never an option.

"I could help you learn to sneak if you'd like," Brynjolf offers, and I giggle. "There's no need for that, lass," Brynjolf grumbles. "I was the best sneak thief in my younger days. I'm still damn good at it."

"Oh, I know you're a bastard," I tell him seriously, and his face scrunches up in confusion. "Sorry," I correct myself. "I meant a sneak. A sneaky bastard. That's it. I'm just not one and I'll never be one, which is a nice number."

"Nonsense!" Brynjolf says, his regular cheer back. "If a big guy like me can learn, a light-footed lass like you will have no trouble."

"I am pretty," I acknowledge, "but I'm no good at it. I'm good at being pretty, I mean, but not the foots."

"Ah, under my teaching, you'll be slinking about like a pro," Brynjolf replies dismissively.

"Pick-pick and lock-pocket," I suddenly say.

I blink at the three pairs of eyes gazing at me, waiting for an explanation, but I do not have one. I think I was trying to say that I am a pick-pock and a locket-picket, but I can't be sure. All these words are just so damn similar that I get tripped up thoughtfully-wise and I'm none the wiser.

"You can't go wrong with Bryjolf as a tutor," Cynric adds when it becomes clear I will not expand on my phrase with some explanatory sentences.

"Fine, but I like your voice," I reply, while Cynric's face reddens and Delvin chuckles. "Because," I correct. "Because I like your voice."

"Yes, I got that," Cynric mutters. "Thanks."

"I sense a betting pool starting," Delvin says with a wry grin.

"Sod off, Del," Cynric grumbles as he tugs at his hood and glances away from me.

"Ah, this'll be more fun that Tonlia and Vekel's," Delvin chortles before standing up and patting me on the shoulder. He places the scrap of paper in front of me with a kind smile. "You're the best damn thing that's happened to the Guild in far too long," he says before striding over to the bar to Vekel, still laughing under his breath.

"I'm going to bet on myself," I decide. I just about always win if I bet on myself. Granted, those bets are usually _with_ myself, but the principle still stands.

"You do that, lass," Brynjolf says with a hint of amusement. "Good luck Cynric, my boy," he adds as he also stands up. "Now come on," he says to me. "Let's teach you how to become a shadow."

True to his word, Brynjolf tries to teach me how to become a shadow. True to my word, I am no good at it. It takes me a whopping two minutes to get distracted by a trailing thought and blurt something out that would assuredly give away my position. If I manage to keep hold of my tongue, I inevitably just stop concentrating, forget what I am doing, or sit down. I do not have the patience for sneaking, I tell Brynjolf patiently over the next hour, but he refuses to admit I'm a lost cause.

Eventually, I get so bored with trying to crouch in the shadows, control my footsteps, and make my body still as a corpse, that I wander into the sewers and return to the surface world above. Hopefully, Brynjolf will think that I'm such a good sneak that he can't find me and he will leave me alone about it now.

Since I have nothing else to do and I hate leaving things undone, I pull out the map that Delvin was kind enough to make me. He has nice handwriting, even in smudged charcoal, and the paper clearly marks Riften's western gate and the road to take to Goldenglow, which is apparently a place. In the top right corner, he has written, _Remember: clear out the safe and burn three beehives_.

I smile to myself as I attempt to navigate the confusing streets of Riften. I have been with these people for just over a day, and they already seem to understand me. Brynjolf talks to me with more patience than anyone except my family does, Cynric can clear my head a tad with nothing but the sound of his voice, and I would have been completely helpless without this little map Delvin made me.

With Keerava, my friendly Guildmates, and a plethora of shopkeepers who leave their wares underneath their stalls where anyone with a lockpick can get them, I am beginning to feel quite at home in Riften. In fact, Brynjolf informed me yesterday that I could live in the Guild the moment I mentioned that I sleep outdoors. I have yet to take him up on that since he offered it to me this morning, but I think I will.

And then I remember that I can't stay. I'll do what's still undone, but I can't _stay_. The sadness that thought gives me makes me wonder if I'm still drunk even though I know I'm not.


	4. Indigoldenglow

_i need everyone to say thank you to_ ** _maximsk_** _for beta-ing this treasure trove of a story. okay, ready? all together now..._

 _"thaaank youuu, maaxiimsk"_

 _yall did gr8. now read._

* * *

4\. Indigoldenglow

* * *

I'm not sure what all the fuss about this silly mansion job is. Sure, a dragon swooped down and helpfully killed the gate guards for me before flying away, but such things are only to be expected. In fact, I was so delighted by the dragon that decided to aid me in my infiltration scheme, I ignored the fact that it tried to eat me next. No matter what everyone says, I know that _dovahhe_ are kind and majestic creatures that are simply misunderstood by closed-minded mortals.

After all, the dragons' goal of enslaving or eradicating every mortal race does wonders towards fostering motivation to live your best life. I, for one, hope to ascend as a _dovah_ before I die, and I am sure it will probably happen. If not, then I can just pretend it happened and that's good enough for me.

Sadly, the dragon flies off, but perhaps it just wants to eat less pretty people. If I were a _dovah_ , I would personally eat all the pretty people so that I could be the prettiest of the people even though that might not even matter because I would not be a person. Maybe _dovahhe_ don't notice pretty people anyway, because dragons are eons prettier than all the people of primps. No one is primpy compared to a _dovah_ , so the _dovahhe_ have no need to be jealous.

I suppose I'm not jealous of the pretty people either, since I know I am the most beautiful of all the primitives, but premature preening can always produce preachy pronouns. _Oh, those religious nuts and their robes. Some of them might be pretty, but they all look like potato sacks._ I will eat potatoes as a _dovah_.

I push-ato open the now demolished gates of the estate, step over a few obliterated corpses, and make my way through the grounds. The dragon used its elemental attacks against the lucky buggers, so there is no blood to be seen until I start bashing the rest of the mercenaries apart. I am delighted that the _dovah_ was considerate enough to leave nothing but charred bones and ash, else I might have felt a bit sick. _Oh, dovahhe really are the kindest of creatures; they just have a reputation for killing to upkeep, so they must seem aloof and aloft._

Luckily for the _dovahhe_ , these guys seem to have a death wish, because they run at me with various battle cries, unmindful of the corpses of their fellows decorating the ground behind me. " 'Scuze me," I call to the next suicidal mercenary. "I'm Liar," I say as is only polite.

The man lets out a hoarse "Time to die!" and runs at me, his massive, two-handed sword raised aggressively.

"I was wondering if you know where a safe—" The man gets close enough to pop my personal space bubble, so I smash his head so far back that his neck cracks a tad. I look away just in case he has a nosebleed, and then more nary a mercies are rushing towards me.

I try a few more times to ask if they know where a safe is and I am quite polite about it, always introducing myself politely as is polite. They, on the other hand, were not taught manners by their fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and others with fathers and mothers and sisters—Dovahhe _don't have family, do they?_ I frown thoughtfully as the next mer symphony throws him or herself onto my mace and dies. _Dragons are aloof and aloft and alove, but do they have families?_

 _Dragons are_ always _aloft, though, aren't they?_ They are not always aloof because they clearly love each other and would die for their omnipotent Lord Alduin, even if they can't really die in the mortal realm, technically. I am so happy I will never have to go to a _dovah_ 's funeral. If they do not have families, maybe there won't be too many depressed _dovahhe_ if one dies anyway.

The loved ones of these guards, however, will be attending many a funeral. The outside of the estate takes little time to clear because of my ability to hit people and their ability to die, and, before long, I have continued what the _dovahhe_ so kindly started for me: the eradication of the entire mortal realm. Happy to help a dragon in need, I can only hope that there are more mortal enemies inside the innards of the glowfly.

I dig out my map to check what I ought to do next. The map is a bit crumpled from all my running about and being chased by a dragon and such, but the words in the corner are still rather legible.

 _Remember:_

That one seems a bit difficult for me, but I suppose I will press on.

 _clear out the safe_

A safe is probably inside the mansion, unless the owner is someone who likes to bury his treasure like a dog or a pirate or a dog pirate— _or do those things dig up treasure? Pirates are such_ dogs _._ Either way, there is no 'X' on this map marking where the dog is, so I'll hazard a guess that the clearing refers to a safe indoors. Why a clearing would be indoors, I have no idea, but at least the hazard is specifically safe.

 _and_

Oh, it seems as though there is more to do. This whole assignment is getting complex, but at least it is helping me forget about the blood soaking into the impeccably-manicured grounds.

 _burn three beehives._

Okay, that one is easy enough if I can find the beehives. I am not the biggest fan of either running towards bees or killing off the innocent creatures, but I suppose I'll make an exception this time. If the bees must die because the paper says so, then the bees will die. I can only hope that they have the presence of mind to escape with their queen before they are massacred.

A mercenary at my feet coughs up a clot of blood, distracting me from my pacifist thoughts so that I can scrunch my face up in disgust. I slam the hilt of my mace down hard into his eyeball, and he thankfully stops moving and vomiting blood. A wave of nausea threatens to bring me to my knees, but I manage to suffer only a couple of dry heaves before I trot away from the pile of corpses.

I shudder a little and put the thoughts of blood and death from my jumbled mind while I grab a torch from the nearby sconce. I sheath my mace in preference for wielding the torch like a flaming mace, swinging it around and wishing it had spikes and that there was still a bandit mercenary alive to test this out on. It occurs to me that I could drench some oil on the head of my head-bashing instrument of death and light it on fire so that the wounds would cauterize and not bleed.

I use a mace for the sole reason that it is a blunt instrument and won't spray gallons of gore every which way. Unfortunately, skin is always thinner than I expect, and I get blood anyway, especially since I have hammered some rusty nails that hold a few of my favorite lettuce leaves to it. I have wrapped some white string around it too so that it looks like a spider web. The lettuce makes the blood a little more palatable, and the nails add some musical noises of death when they skewer the dead.

Well, alive at the time, but dead now. The spiders can catch the flies that try to eat my dead, because the dead belong to the _dovahhe_ and the flies and the maggots. Not the bees.

The bees, however, are harder to find than everyone made it seem, as they are across a funny little bridge and do not look at all like beehives. No, they look like little thatch huts, which must be very comfortable for the bees, as a thatch hut would equate to a luxurious palace for the little fiends, but the loud buzzing and concentrated mass of said little fiends makes me nearly certain that these are the bee mansions I'm to burn. Without further ado, I pray that the bees do not sting me, and I stretch out my arm as far as it goes so that I can torch the first one. I get no stings, so, encouraged, I torch the second and then the third.

At this point, I am offended. _Is there some reason the bees don't want to sting me? Is it my perfume? Damn finicky bastards stinging everyone but me._ I almost burn the others out of spite, but then I remember that I was told to burn three and only three. I remember this because one is my lucky number and I had to burn one and then one and then one— _or was it one and then one and then one and then one?_ Someone probably should have written this one down for me.

I check my map to realize that I am supposed to save one and one and one bees and burn the safe clearing. I look around to find three beehives already burning and a lit torch in my hand, so I must have made all the bees fall asleep so that they can eat the corpses after some rest. I stamp out the torch and make my way to the manor itself. If the safe is not inside, I'll eat my hat. Since I do not have a hat, it must follow that the safe is inside.

That determined, I enter the homestead itself. A door guard instantly begins to shriek before she loses function of her head because bits of it are on my mace. _She really should lock the door if she wants others to get in._ Something is digging into my right hand, and I glance down to find a couple of lockpicks which have no business being in that hand because there are no wrong doors to lock. _I should probably shove some lockpicks into my mace because these things are quite spiky._

I don't particularly want to search the whole place for a safe since the mansion is quite big—as one might infer when hearing the descriptor 'Indiglow'. However, when I call out to the men and women patrolling the rooms, they attack me on sight, and I am forced to bash their heads in before I can get any answers. It is silly that they yell so much to tell the other guards that I'm coming, because a lot more people would survive if they just stopped showing up. This is my house, after all, so they should be the ones showing up to leave, not me.

Honestly, it's just basic manners.

I check my map many times, but there is no description of the interior. I should have drawn this map better, but I must admit that my handwriting in the corner is much nicer than usual.

I explore the whole place, killing everything I find except for a kind Altmer sitting morosely on a chair. He shows more creativity than any of the others who try to kill me, as he runs at me with tears in his eyes and a butter knife clutched in his hand. He seems nice, so I decide to knock this one out in order to ask him where the safe is. After a couple seconds that feel like years, I grow impatient that he has not woken up yet and so I head to the basement. I do not consider basements a part of houses, so I haven't yet checked it, but I am desperate enough to gouge my eyes out like a Falmer and brave the underground.

Well, I'll brave the underground, at least; my eyes are too pretty to be gouged out even if it means I never have to lay them on blood again.

There are a few more people down there that I kill without hesitation— _or, wait, didn't Brynjolf tell me not to kill? Oblivion's sake, maybe that was for something else._ I hope so, because then I will be in a lot of trouble after of the veritable mountain of corpses I have left behind and then that one unconscious Altmer upstairs.

Anyhow, there just so happens to be a safe down here, so I open it and grab all the loot. I don't know what kind of safe is very safe if it isn't locked, but then I notice that there is nothing but a piece of paper inside. _What a waste of time._ To make myself feel a bit better, I search the place a little more and find a giant golden bee—a statue I hope—and decide that I can bury it as a post-mortem apology to the bee massacre which took place today. I step over a few mercenary corpses, ignoring the blood as best I can, and head back to the place that my map is telling me to go but is also not the place at which I currently am.

It takes me as much time as is usual to reach the place I am trying to reach, and I usually make it there. Usually to Riften, at this point. Also as usual, I stop for a nice chat with Ted and Robert. This time, they do not even bother pretending to ask for a toll, but they do inform me that they have nearly enough money to bribe the guards to ignore their crime of throwing someone out of their home with the intent of keeping it for themselves.

"Oh, that's wondrous!" I crow. I applaud their initiative, but I have forgotten that I'm still holding lockpicks and a mace, so I drop both before my hands can make the proper clapping noises. "I'm a bit touchy not like my mind, so you shouldn't go touching anyone in the Thieves' Guild except maybe for Shouty. He's touchy already, so he might not even notice some extra touching so long as you make him shout."

"Heh, I'd rather be touching _you_ ," Robert says just as Ted says, "I'll have you shoutin' alright." The two look at each other and share a smile.

"You call me the clever one," Robert says demurely, "but that was brilliant."

"Aye, but not as brilliant as yours," Ted says, trying to hide a proud smile.

"Or there's a mole to freeze off," I realize, and the two pause their starstruck staring contest to stare at me uncontestedly. "But neither of you are mages, right?" I ask critically, and they admit that they are not. "Mm, but you don't need drivel to dispose of a despot."

"I suppose not," Robert agrees.

"Who're we dispo... sting?" Ted fumbles.

"It's deposition," Robert corrects him gently.

"Aye, disposition."

"Perfect, Ted," Robert replies proudly.

"Hole the Muntress," I state, finally remembering her name.

"Oh, Mjoll," Robert says. "Mjoll the Huntress."

" 'S what I said," I huff. "Toll the Cun—"

"She's a cunt," Ted says thoughtfully. "It'd be nice to kick her out."

"Yeah, cuck her!" I cheer.

"She does have a nice house," Robert muses.

"But it's not her house," Ted shoots back. "It's the... other man. The one who saved her."

"There's another man?" Robert bristles. "Double murder time."

"You've got it!" I laugh proudly. Smiling, I stare between them for a few moments. "Oh, but you must remember," I tell them, suddenly serious. I feel a bit like a hypocrite, but I have never been much of a critic so neither should their hips. "If Shouty's not the only touched thief not in the head, you'll lose your head. And your skin. In the opposite order so that your head can hear your skin going red."

"E-er, a'ight," Ted stammers, and Robert nods furiously.

"It's always good to conversate with good people," I tell them before pushing past to enter the city. Proud of my ability to foster friendships, I pretend not to notice Ted gently comforting a sniffling Robert.

I am eternally grateful that I had the rare foresight to get tipsy before entering the sewers that first time. I still have some difficulty navigating the miniature labyrinth, but not nearly as much as I would if I had not been slightly inebriated. The door to the Rigged Fledgling is, as usual, locked but no trouble for someone with as much foresight as I.

It is then that I realize I have run out of lockpicks. _When did I even use them?_ I check my mace, but there are none stuck to the top. I stare critically at the door, sending it opening thoughts, but it has strong enough willpower to resist. Even I cannot unlock a door without lockpicks, but I should learn. _Why haven't more people done that?_ I could revolutionize the lockpicking industry and be thrown into a forge by destitute smiths who left their silver ingots out and about. _If I burn to death, I can pretend I'm a_ dovah _._

Cheered by thoughts of _dovahhe_ , I knock hard on the door one time and then one time and then one time and then one time. It takes little time after that for the door to be opened by an angry-looking blond Imperial woman. I do not remember ever seeing her before, so maybe she's a new recruit like me.

"I see you're not as good at breaking in as everyone seems to think," the woman growls.

I blink. "I'm Liar," I introduce myself as is only polite. I am not sure what I have done to incur this woman's ire, but maybe it's just because she's an Imperial. Imperials are all kind of angry and stuck-up as far as I can tell. _I mean, their race's name essentially means 'snob.'_ "I forgive you," I say _. It's not her fault she's an Imperial_.

"You think you're so damn special because Brynjolf coos and coddles you," she snarls, angry for some reason, "but I can tell that you're just a fucking poser in over her head."

"The city is over both of our heads," I remind her. "I just want something to eat now, so excuse me." I gently push her aside as one does a small but annoying child, and she snaps a few curses at me that I hope I will remember later so that I can use them.

I get a few suspicious and irritated glares from the people in the Rancid Wagon, but I pay them no mind as I scan the seats for anyone familiar. Soon enough, I find my favorite duo of Bretons, but at different tables. I hover in between them for a few uncertain moments, but then Cynric catches my eye and smiles at me. Noticing my dilemma, he scoots out of his seat and waves me over to Delvin's table with him. Delighted that I do not have to choose, I put myself in the chair between them as Delvin looks up, surprised.

"Well, look who it is!" he says with a grin. "Everyone's favorite lady thief." I nod unabashedly and preen a little bit. "So did ya do the Goldenglow job?" he asks eagerly while I stare at him uncomprehendingly.

"…Goldenglow?" I repeat, feeling as though I have heard those words before but not quite sure where. _They sound like two words, but maybe they're just a one word?_ Like the mead. The Horker Brew one. Although it does have two tusks and then a third, so that might represent how many metaphorical words are sparkling in blue and scarlet.

Delvin's face falls, and he glances to Cynric. "The job you were supposed to be doing," Cynric supplies patiently. "Burning beehives and breaking into a safe."

"Oh!" I realize. "I thought it was Indiglow." Cynric and Delvin both chuckle at that.

"It is a better name," Cynric acknowledges. "Now, how'd it go?"

"The fresh air and exercise did wonders for my glowing constitution," I reply a bit dreamily. "I saw my one true love, and he saved me from the tower while I hid under a bridge so he wouldn't eat me afterwards. And then some people died, I think." I draw my mace to show them all the evidence, even though I need to look away from the stains of dried blood and gore.

"I thought Goldenglow was a stealth job," Delvin says after a long whistle of appreciation.

I shrug. "I'm no sneak thief."

"Aye," Delvin says airily, "I remember. You're a pickpocket and a lockpick and a head-basher, apparently."

I nod happily. "Apparent eel."

"What did Mercer say?" Cynric asks eagerly. "Did he get angry, or did he just give you a disapproving grunt?"

"The… city?" I inquire slowly. "I haven't visited the city yet." I suddenly stand up, causing the chair to fall backwards with a clatter, and the bartender, Vekel, I think, winces. "I need to see Shouty and Brynjolf," I exclaim.

I make to dash to Mercer until I remember that I have a present for someone. I skid to a stop and turn around to stare at the pair at the table. With the tableware. Since I have only two friends near me right now, I am assuming it's for one of them. I do not remember exactly what it is, but I remember that it was buried and something about a grave, so it must be treasure taken from a tomb that I do not remember raiding. After some rummaging through the many pouches on my belt, I finally find a golden statue that looks quite out of place, and I proudly place it on the table.

"I found an expensive bee," I tell them since the statue is a golden bee.

"Oh, I've been looking for this," Delvin gasps as he gingerly turns it in his hands. "What a beauty." He grins at me without his usual endearing lechery. "With you onboard, we might get out of this dry spell." He glances at Cynric out of the corner of his eye. "The Guild, at least, might get outta its dry spell. Can't speak for all its members, though."

"Oh, for—really, Del? Really?" Cynric snaps, glaring daggers at Delvin. "At least we're talking, which is more I can say about you and Vex!"

Delvin glowers back and mumbles something about women always playing coy before he goes back to studying the statue, although with less gusto.

I shift on my feet a bit, uncomfortably aware that there is an odd sort of tension between the two now. "I'm sorry," I blurt out, and both look up at me in surprise. "Did I do something to make you guys angry? Can I get you some strawberry honey and jam or some vodka? Vodka jammed with honey brew?"

"What're you on about girl?" Delvin says just as Cynric yells, "How'd you get to that?"

"Strawberries soaked in honeyed meadery," I say thoughtfully. "That's the ticket right there…" I blink at them a bit confusedly, wondering if I have said something to offend them because they're both staring at me strangely. "I should go to Mercer and talk to Shouty," I realize before waving goodbye to my Breton friends and heading to Mercer. Before I forget, however, I seek out Vekel. "Strawberries, vodka, honey," I tell him seriously. "Put them together and make me a drink that'll kill every other drink without cinnamon."

"I'll, uh, see what I can do," Vekel says, wringing his hands and clearly wanting this conversation to be over, "but it's not strawberry season." I casually shoulder my mace, and Vekel pales significantly. "I'll… find a way," he mumbles.

I offer him my kind thanks which he accepts less than graciously, but I suppose there's only so much a girl can do. Now that I have gotten all these little details figured out, though, I know it's time to visit Mercer and report to Shouty and Brynjolf. I hope Shouty isn't a condescending blister, but I'm not counting on it. At least Brynjolf can curse him since he is a redhead. One of them is. _Brynjolf can't be the redhead, though, because he's the good guy, right?_ Last time I went down this train of thought, it ended at Mara, so I close the conversation before it can get too far.

"I killed the manor," I say as I enter Mercer, but no one seems to be listening.

There's that one Bosmer that I might have seen before shooting arrows at a straw target. I will admit that he is pretty good shot, but I don't recall him doing anything else other than this. I suppose someone becomes a good shot from hours and hours of practice, but damn does it look boring. There's also that pretty Nord woman sitting on the edge of the central pool of water, but she only glares at me and tells me to get out of her face. She does not appreciate me pointing out that I only glanced at her once and was not even approaching her, as she only growls unladylike-ly and threatens to gut me.

I do not know why so many of these thieves are so bad-tempered, but maybe it is because of that dry spell Delvin was talking about. Sorcery should always be a last resort, in my opinion, but I am also no mage. _If she's in a dry spell, would she feel better if I pushed her in the water?_ I raise an arm, preparing to help her out of this curse of hers.

"Oh, lass, you made it!" Brynjolf calls out from near Shouty's desk with the book.

At the sound of my friend's voice, I forget what I was planning to do. All the septims from last time are gone, so Shouty is glaring at his book again with abandon. I wave to Brynjolf cheerfully and cross the cobblestone bridge to get to him.

"I heard some interesting rumors about Goldenglow last night," he says with a crafty grin.

"All good things, I hope," I say.

"You made a goddamned mess," Shouty grumbles without looking up. "Left corpses everywhere."

"You told me to find a way," I remind him. "I'm not—"

"A sneak thief," he interrupts mockingly. "Yes, you've mentioned that. Well, I suppose since our client doesn't have a problem with the body count, then neither do I." Before I can ask him why he is so angry if he doesn't have a problem with the body count, Brynjolf cuts in diplomatically.

"What's important, though," he says, shooting Shouty an exasperated glance that goes unnoticed, "is that the lass did what no one else in the Guild could."

Shouty grumbles something about how he could have if he really wanted to, but his duty as the Guildmaster keeps him in the damn Cistern all day, but Brynjolf does not acknowledge his words.

"Three beehives burned," Brynjolf continues, "Aringoth alive and talking, and an empty safe." Shouty grunts disapprovingly, and I am amazed at how spot-on Cynric's guesses for Shouty's reactions were. "Speaking of which," Brynjolf says to me, "what was in the safe?"

"Oh." I can't remember in the least what was in the safe, but I'm sure I'll know it when I find it.

I rummage about my pouches for a while, staring quizzically at many things that I did not realize I even had until now, and then I come across a piece of paper that I don't remember ever seeing in my life. It looks to be a map, and the words _Remember: clear out the safe and burn three beehives_ are written on the top. I hand it to Brynjolf, who studies and then glances at me questioningly.

"I don't think this is it, lass," he says.

"Oh."

I rifle through my things again, finding a second piece of paper that I don't remember ever seeing in my life and hand that over. Brynjolf stares at it, his brow narrowed in concentration, and then a surprised expression flickers across his face. He wordlessly hands the paper to Shouty, who skims it with a far grimmer reaction. They talk a bit about it being a bill of sale and how some person named Aringoth would be stupid to write up such a thing. They also seem very confused by the buyer's signature, which is nothing but an obscure mark. In my opinion, it probably means that the buyer cannot write, but not many people take my opinion into account. Since I do not want Shouty shouting at me, I decide to keep my accounted opinion to myself.

I snap out of my short trance of boredom from their conversation that does not include me, to find Shouty and Brynjolf both staring at me expectantly. I blink and wait expectantly for them to speak first, but Shouty only huffs and throws his hands into the air defeatedly.

"Just tell her to go meet Maven, dammit," he snarls at Brynjolf. "Get her out of here, and don't keep the Black-Briers waiting." Brynjolf forces a small smile and leads me away from Shouty's desk, even though I can still hear him grumbling about some girl's mental state.

Brynjolf scowls slightly towards Shouty's desk and then places a hand on my shoulder to amicably draw me back into the Raisin Flogging. He calls for a pint as he sits me down at one of the tables. Vekel skitters over with a couple tankards that he sets nervously onto the table before he departs as quickly as he arrived. Cynric's head appears from the passageway that leads into the sleeping room, and he grins the moment his gaze meets mine. Without further ado, he trots over and joins Brynjolf and me. I look around for Delvin, but he is nowhere to be seen. As Cynric falls into the chair across from Brynjolf and next to me, I decide to return his previous favor, so I slide my drink over to him.

Cynric glances at me, surprised, but grabs the tankard without hesitation. "So? Shouting, or disapproving grunt?"

"Both," I admit. "First he shouted 'cause I killed people that he then said he didn't care if I killed, and then he grunted disapprovingly, but he's got a soft side somewhere 'cause he seemed so concerned about a girl with statemental. Bad disease, that."

Brynjolf winces and sips from his tankard. "Sorry about him, lass," he says contritely. "He's… usually a good man. Impatient, but a good man."

"He seems like a good sort," I agree without much thought.

It is only polite to assume that people are good sorts until I am proven otherwise, but both Cynric and Brynjolf stare at me in disbelief for a few moments of silence.

"Anyway, lass," Brynjolf says without warning, "it's time to welcome you to the family officially."

If I had something in my mouth, I would have spat it out. As it is, I only jerk backwards and glance between the two men with wide eyes. "Who'd I marry?" I inquire fearfully. "I don't remember marrying anyone. Was there cake at the wedding? How many layers? Strawberry or cinnamon with carrots?"

Cynric laughs so hard that he chokes on whatever alcohol is in the tankard. "Shit," he mutters hoarsely as he coughs painfully. "Why do I always do this?"

Brynjolf seems more alarmed than amused as he waves his hands wildly back and forth. "You're not married!" he clarifies. "You're just part of the Guild!"

When I tilt my head quizzically, Cynric regains the use of his trachea and nods at Brynjolf's words. "We're like a dysfunctional adopted family," he explains, a note of warmth in his voice. "We take care of each other and help each other whenever we can."

"Oh," I breathe, and I feel a smile take over my face. "That sounds nice," I say wistfully, "but I've explored all of Riften now, so I'd best be going." I stand up and heft my mace over my shoulder. "I'll definitely visit," I assure them, but they do not seem able to react. "Probably."

"Eh?" Brynjolf sputters. "Lass?"

A bit mournful, I give him a half-smile. "You two and Delvin are my good friends, alright?" I say, and then I look around the rest of the Rigid Frigid with a large grin. "Bye friends!" I call out. "Good to meet you all!"

"Who in the blazes are you?" a woman in leathers mutters from atop the wooden platform in front of me.

I laugh at that, wondering if Vekel will keep his promise and make me a strawberry cake with layers of carrot mead, but it might not even matter since I am not married. As I wander out of the Guild and into the sewers, I find myself hoping that my travels will bring me back here sometime. Sometime soon. And often. _Or does that mean the same thing? Maybe sometimes._

Before I leave the city, though, I talk to some friendly people around town so that I can get a new destination. I decide to live on the edge and not drink anything, so I probably will not remember a lick of advice. That is fine by me. Exploring's never boring if nothing is known—I think someone dead said that before he died, or maybe it's just me thinking about not being dead. Either way, everyone seems more than happy to help a pretty Breton in need. Many people tell me to visit Whiterun because it's a nice, clean city with only a couple of blood feuds and a werewolf infestation, others say to head to Windhelm to join the true Nord-Cloaks like a proper Breton, some say to go back to the brothel down the road and suck some Nord-Cocks like a proper cretin, and a few even tell me to visit Markarth and go to Cidhna Mine where scum like me belongs.

Eventually, I decide to go to Whiterun, because there seem to be some warriors called the Companions there that would be happy to let me bash things with maces. _Hopefully, even with one mace._ That is good enough reason for me to go anywhere, so I make sure everything important like changes of clothes and some sprigs of lavender are tied to my belt, and then head out just as evening begins to fall. Ted and Robert are still guarding the gates and they wave to me cheerily, calling out a few lascivious 'compliments,' so I decide I ought to chat with them as is my custom.

"Hello again," I say kindly. "How goes the extortion business?"

"Aye, it's brilliant!" Ted says. "Robert here's really got a knack for shakin' down the sick and elderly, ain't that true, Rob?"

Robert blushes a little and scuffs the dirt around with his boot. "A-aye," he mumbles, embarrassed, "but Ted's always got my back when the gullible nobles come by."

"Ah, I don't do nothin'," Ted replies, and Robert spends a few moments fervently disagreeing until Ted concedes bashfully.

"I'm glad to see you two managing so well," I say.

"Aw, thanks titty monster," Ted says warmly.

"Aye, they are nice to look at," Robert agrees.

I smile bashfully. _These two always manage to brighten my day._ "I hope you have all the luck and prosperity in the world," I say with honest sincerity. "Also, remember that Joel the Muttoness has a very nice house, and no one would really complain if she just disappeared."

"Very true," Robert says thoughtfully. "The whole reason people go to Riften is to enjoy a life of crime, so she's really a nuisance to everyone."

I nod vigorously. "I hope Moral the Buttress doesn't run you out of town before you can bash her head in," I say.

"That's right kind o' ya," Ted sniffles, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

Robert places a consoling hand on Ted's shoulder and smiles at me. "You're a good sort," he states. "Feel free to join our toll-collecting business whenever ya want."

Touched, I give them each a bow. Both crane their necks to catch a peek of the forbidden fruits, and I allow them that liberty as my thanks. "G'bye," I tell them, and they return the farewell boisterously.

I leave Riften proper in high spirits despite some lingering disappointment. _Those two might seem like lecherous fools preying on the defenseless and downtrodden, but they are really just lecherous sweethearts trying to get each other through life._ I am proud to say that I now have a total of six friends, so I am honor-bound to return here sometime soon.

As my brain turns sleepier and my thoughts more muddled-ier, I only remember that I have six wonderful friends in Riften named Keerava, Brynjolf, Cynric, Delvin, Ted, and Robert, and I am on my way to Whiterun. I do not remember how to get to Whiterun, but there are signposts everywhere to help me out in that respect. I feel like a proper adventurer as I wander around in the middle of the freezing cold night.

I get attacked by wolves a couple times, sure, but nothing a badass woman like myself can't handle. I messily skin one of them and hang its pelt from my belt once it stops dripping blood everywhere, and I only vomit three times in the process. _When I get to Whitegallop, I'll find someone to make it into a pair of pretty gloves or maybe a nice scarf._ For now, I must satisfy myself with the knowledge that the vultures and maggots and cannibalistic wolves will be eating well tonight. Always happy to do the local ecosystem a few favors, I salute the mangled corpse without actually looking at it, and then continue on my merry way. As long as I keep my feet on the road and follow the signs to the place that I'm going, I'm sure I'll get to wherever it is I'm planning on getting to go… wherever that is.

* * *

 _dovahhe:_ dragons (plural of _dovah_ )


	5. Winded But Running

_aight, new chapter. cheers for **maximsk** for being my beta but fyi im still the chad. uh, probly put up two chaps today cuz this one's got a lotta cynric and who needs that_

 _and all of you are amazing and im still shocked u like this story and im having fun writing it_

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5\. Winded But Running

* * *

 _"She's a damned spy, Bryn!"_

 _"Mercer, the lass is just a bit eccentric!"_

 _"Why else would she just run off like some shifty good-for-nothing right after she found the mysterious buyer? She must have recognized the symbol!"_

 _"She could hardly recognize the paper, bless her heart!"_

 _"It's obviously a ploy, Brynjolf, and you're too gullible to see through it!"_

 _"Why do you always have to assume the worst of everyone? It's bad for business, it is!"_

 _"It's the only thing keeping us_ in _business, dammit!"_

The result of that argument was that now Cynric found himself leaving Riften alone in the middle of the night. It was _cold_. He kept shivering even under his heavy overcoat, and he wondered how Liar managed to walk around in her undergarments all day without freezing her bits off. He was so deep in thought about Liar's bits— _no, about how cold she must be all the time_ —that he did not even notice which gate he was exiting until someone yelled at him to halt.

Cynric felt a bolt of fear. The last time a guard had accosted him, he had spent three miserable years in that High Rock prison. He avoided guards as much as possible, as any thief should, but not as many had the same terror Cynric had of them. Thus, Cynric froze immediately but forced himself to quell his nervousness. He was unknown in Riften, he reminded himself. That was the whole _point_. No, it was just odd that Cynric was a lone traveler exiting the city after nightfall. That was unusual enough to draw scrutiny, but nothing would come of it.

Gods, it was _just_ like Liar to leave at nightfall. She was a woman traveling alone without armor or a sense of direction—or much regular sense at all, to be honest. Sure, could be skilled with that mace, but Cynric had never seen her in action and he could not imagine how well someone could really fight with such an unwieldy weapon.

Deep in thought until now, Cynric had been following Liar's path according to a witness her directed him to this gate. When he finally looked around, he realized that this was the gate where two rogue guards previously in the Guild's employ had decided to set up shop.

It was _just_ like Liar to leave in the most difficult way possible.

"G'day, sir," the first one, a short yet muscular fellow with greasy dark hair and a greasier mustache, said. He grinned, shamelessly revealing the gaps where some of his teeth had rotten out. The rest were blackening and looked close to dropping to the ground. "Pay the toll to exit the city, else there'll be trouble."

"An exit toll is ridiculous," Cynric snapped back. He did not have time for this. "Everyone just uses the other gates!"

"And yet here ya are," the second astutely pointed out. This one was a bit taller and lanky with watery eyes, a hooked nose, and fishlike lips. "Pay up or we'll got to skewer ya."

"Have to," the first corrected in a piercingly loud whisper.

"Pay up or we'll got to have you!" the second corrected loudly, and the first patted him on the shoulder.

"Nice recovery, Ted."

"You thought so?"

"Aye."

"Uh," Cynric interjected uncomfortably. When the two focused back onto him, he realized that he had just thrown away his opportunity to slip away and exit through a different gate. Mentally cursing himself, he reluctantly continued with his original plan. "I'm going out on official Guild business," he said with as much confidence as he could muster. He was not used to speaking out or making himself the center of attention, so the tone did not come naturally to him.

"Guild?" Ted asked, narrowing his droopy eyes in suspicion. "What guild?"

"Thieves," Cynric explained blandly. This might take longer than expected.

"Oi, that's the guild that sacked us all them months ago!" Ted shouted,

Cynric cursed himself yet again. Of course they hated the Thieves Guild! The Guild stopped associating with the two the moment they had begun keeping the majority of the money for themselves. Since the Guild did not have the manpower to halt their activities, Mercer had just swept the whole incident under the rug and blamed it on the incompetence of Brynjolf and everyone else even remotely involved.

Cynric sighed heavily and changed tactics. "Look, did you see a woman pass through a few minutes ago? Tall, black hair, grayish skin, scary-looking mace?"

"Big tits?" Robert added with complete seriousness, just as Ted said, "Sexy curves?" They glanced at each other and shared a laugh.

"You read my mind, eh?" Robert said with a warm smile.

"Aye, I know you better 'n myself," Ted replied. The pair stared at each other for nearly half a minute before Ted turned his gaze back to Cynric. "You friends with the bird? What was 'er name..."

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea..." Robert paused and then shook his head. " 'S all I remember. Something noble-y and long."

"Brilliant work, gettin' that far," Ted said, impressed, and Cynric had to agree. "She's good stock, that one. Prettier than a picture."

"And scarier than a troll," Robert affirmed.

"But a lot prettier."

"Aye, that's the truth. Thanks for correcting my simile, Ted."

"I'm here for ya, Rob."

Cynric nodded hesitantly, unsure whether these two were positively associated towards Liar, if at all. "Well, I'm her friend," he said cautiously, "and I'm just trying to find her. Could you let me through?" When Ted and Robert seemed unsure, Cynric, hoping his hunch was right, added, "She might be in danger and time is of the essence."

"Oh, go on through," Ted grumbled, gesturing with his pike. "It wouldn't do for Val... lil... er, the girl, to come to any harm. She went off thataway." He gestured vaguely to the north. "I remember because of how her tits were bouncing."

"You've got a good heart, Ted," Robert murmured as Cynric tried to edge past the pair before they changed their minds. "You always manage to surprise me."

"Just 'cause we extort money from the poor and sick doesn't mean we can't help out our friends," Ted replied, clearly embarrassed. "Talos knows I don't got too many."

"You're my best friend, ya know," Robert beseeched his fellow guard.

Ted was silent for a moment, and when he next spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "Aye," he said, "and you're mine."

"And… maybe you're even more than that," Robert whispered, but it did not look like Ted heard.

Cynric shook his head and contemplated what on Nirn Liar had done to befriend a couple of worthless, corrupt guards. Her madness seemed to be contagious, spreading throughout the guild like an infection and wrecking havoc along the way. Mercer was mad with paranoia, spending all his time obsessing over which enemy would be at his throat next—and that enemy was Liar. Brynjolf was mad with misplaced worry, thinking as though Liar were his protege and in need of his protection. Those two guards were mad with conflicting morals and an undeserved sense of importance.

And Liar?

Liar was just plain mad. By the Nine, this whole situation was mad. It was ridiculous. Everyone was ridiculous and mad. Mercer and Bryn had both, separately, made a point to seek Cynric out and ask him to go after Liar for two completely opposite reasons: Mercer to make sure she wasn't a spy surreptitiously working for some vague 'enemy,' and Bryn to convince her to return and somehow singlehandedly save the Guild. Liar was peculiar, but no one would use someone like her as a spy, and how could Bryn think this single, fickle, forgetful woman could drag the Guild out from its pit of bad luck just as a result of one major job? Both of their overreactions would be laughable if Cynric weren't stuck in the middle of it all.

In that vein, why in Oblivion was it suddenly Cynric's job to be her keeper?

Well, truthfully, he knew the answer. Brynjolf and Delvin were far too invested in the Guild's day-to-day affairs to afford dropping everything and leaving, and Cynric was the only other one that Liar had made a positive impression on. Barring the other two, Cynric was the only one in the Guild who could say that he even partially understood her, and both Brynjolf and Mercer knew he would not reject the job. Everyone else would have had no knowledge of the mark and very little room to gain Liar's trust. Cynric was clearly the best choice.

He could still feel irritated about it, though. And he would. He was.

And yet, it was odd how strong an impact the woman had after just a few days in the Guild's acquaintance, enough that both Bryn and Mercer were willing to sacrifice the struggling Guild's best—well, second-best now—lockpick. Cynric was nearly as good at stealth as Brynjolf, and he could hold his own against Mercer in a knife fight. He was one of the few thieves in the Guild who had pulled any successful heists over the past couple years, as Cynric still had many connections as a remnant of his previous life. The moment he had joined the Thieves Guild, however, he had turned from wanted criminal and master escape artist to just another thief among the dozens of thieves in a guild of thieves.

Cynric had liked the anonymity at first and had kept to himself, so he started making friends a bit late in the game. He had fallen farther and farther into the background over the years of bad luck as his friends were killed, captured, or simply left the struggling Guild. Eventually, everyone who remained with the Guild was a near stranger to Cynric. _He_ knew he was skilled, successful, and willing to take risks, but no one else seemed to. They catalogued him as one of the lesser members—like Niruin, who never did anything because archery is rarely useful as a thief—and left the important jobs to the important people. Like Vex, that self-important bitch. And now, apparently, Liar, a madwoman. He had always felt a bit undervalued by his fellow Guildmates, but this was a step too far.

Cynric was a Guild asset, not a damned errand boy. After all the work he put into the Guild, after all the effort and skill and coin he gave them, both the Guildmaster and his second believed Cynric would be best utilized chasing after a new recruit. Did he already mention that the situation was _ridiculous_? And mad. And just plain stupid.

His mental rants paired with random fits of cursing Mercer and Brynjolf helped the time fly by and improved his mood tenfold. He was making good progress, better than he expected from a trek out into the cold night with minimal direction. Hopefully, Liar had not gone far and he could get this whole mess straightened out before tomorrow evening.

Even better than hoped, he found Liar within the hour. He was surprisingly unsurprised that the woman was standing at a small crossroads where two little paths branched out from the main road. She was slowly spinning in place with her eyes closed and holding out her mace with both hands. As Cynric approached, she halted with her mace pointing northwest in between two paths. She opened her eyes, sighed, and then began to spin blindly again.

"Hey there, Liar," he said, and she halted with her back to Cynric. As he watched, she presumably opened her eyes before squealing delightedly and swinging her mace about while bouncing up and down.

"You're a picture of perfection!" Liar laughed while turning to him. She had a wide grin on her face. "I've been picking a picture-perfect path for more than many minutes than I've moved." She tilted her head thoughtfully to the side. "That was a sentence. A... sentient sentence? No, super sentence? Oh, a _successful_ sentence!" She smiled proudly at Cynric as though waiting for a compliment.

"Uh, great job," Cynric said hastily, and Liar responded with a slight bow. "Now, could you head back to Riften with me? Everyone misses you back at the Guild."

"Who's every—oh, everyone." She nodded sagely. "Brynjolf and Delvin and Keerava and Ted and Robert and... uh, someone else too."

"Me?" Cynric added helpfully, and Liar snapped her fingers.

"Right, you're Cynric," she said. "And the soup."

"Sure, the soup," Cynric said impatiently. "Could we go back to Riften, please?"

"Absolutely," she stated, and Cynric was struck speechless. _Could it really be this easy?_ "Just as soon as I go to Whitewinter Walkhelmet... Goldego." _No, of course it couldn't._

"What are you talking about?" Cynric sighed. He just wanted to go home and sleep.

"Well, you showed up and pointed over there,"—She emphasized her words by gesturing behind her—"so that's where we have to go. It's the full law of rules."

"So we'll go north to someplace that doesn't exist and then go back south to Riften?" he translated.

"That's right," she replied.

"What if I buy you a mead and a couple bowls of Keerava's soup?" he asked without much hope, and she shook her head sadly.

"Lawful rueful," she reminded him. "Everyone misses me and I miss everyone there, so we'll go back after I go to existing someplace elsethere."

"Do you know where we're—er, you're—going?" Cynric inquired, resigned. "How long you'll be?"

"I do... well, I did," she corrected herself. "So I don't. Something white and windy or for running from head protection."

"Well, if you keep north you'll get to Windhelm in a couple days," he supplied. "It's the closest major city. Is that what you're talking about?"

"I thought it had something with falling snow or..." She waved her free hand. "No, never mind. Let's go there."

Liar started marching off with the clear expectation that Cynric would be following, and he considered his options. He was at a crossroads, a metaphorical and physical one. He could go back to the Guild to face Bryn's disappointment and Mercer's disdain until he was again shoved into the background as a useless failure to the Guild. That would be the best choice here. He could pretend he never found her and just go back to his normal, somewhat uneventful life.

Or...

Oh, who was he kidding? He knew exactly what he was going to do and it wasn't returning to his monochrome life waiting aimlessly in the sewers of Riften. With a little sigh of disappointment in himself and a heart throbbing with anticipation, Cynric reluctantly trailed behind Liar.

xXxXxXx

Over the days, Cynric found that traveling with Liar was an adventure in of itself. If he had thought Liar an odd creature after a half dozen conversations in the Ragged Flagon, three full days in her nonstop company would have been enough to drive a lesser man mad. Fortunately, Cynric was not a lesser man. As it was, he found Liar quite pleasant as a traveling companion. She did not expect him to carry a conversation, so there were no awkward silences, no tense moments. She prattled on about strange things, nonsense, and the occasional philosophical conundrum, and she did not seem to mind that Cynric mostly listened. Liar's observations and unique worldview made the long days of walking not only bearable but also interesting, even if he sometimes could not make heads or tails of her words.

Even with how much she spoke, however, Cynric learned surprisingly little about the woman herself. She conversed in such a roundabout, stream-of-consciousness manner, that most of what Cynric found out was by making logical jumps and noticing patterns between conversations.

From what he gathered, Liar had a Dark Elf father, a Breton mother, and some number of Dark Elf siblings. Well, they had to be half-siblings if they were Dark Elves, but Liar never spoke of them as such. She had lived in Morrowind her whole life before coming to Skyrim, but why she even came here was a mystery. She loved animals to the point of refusing to eat meat, yet she had no qualms about killing them for nothing but their pelts or small trophies. She unflinchingly ripped out a tooth or two from any predator they killed—to make jewelry, she said, and showed him her saber-tooth earrings—and she once chopped off a rabbit's hind foot as some sort of good luck charm. She did all this with her eyes closed, however, because she could not stand the sight of blood. She almost cut her fingers off a few times, but Cynric grabbed the knife away from her just in time.

Her favorite foods were strawberries and honey and sometimes cinnamon, and she seemed to love any kind of concoction that even contained one or the other. One evening, when Cynric had not managed to find anything fresh for dinner, he had watched her tear off a large strip of bark, pull a jar of honey from one of the pouches on her belt, pour a sickening amount on it, and then devour it without hesitation. She had offered Cynric some, but he had opted to finish off the little dried meat he carried with him. She also seemed to be completely immune to the cold and pain, as she strode straight through bramble bushes and thickets with nary a wince.

Finally, but this one was obvious from the beginning, Liar was completely clueless at directions and basic survival skills. She had the bad habit of eating plants out of curiosity or because they looked like something tasty to her, and she got sick multiple times on the road. Cynric began watching her flower-gathering habits very closely after she ate a thistle branch that scratched her throat and then a nightshade flower that had her vomiting nonstop for nearly an hour.

Her clothing was useless defensively even though she was a melee attacker, but she refused to wear anything but her various pairs of differently-colored versions of the same skimpy outfit. She was once bitten on the arm by a wolf and clawed on the stomach by an angry fox, but thankfully Cynric had enough skill in magic to heal her without trouble—even though she did not even seem to feel the pain.

Even though Windhelm was almost straight north from Riften and the two were connected by a cobbled road with many signs, Liar still managed to get confused about the directions. She took one look at a signpost and turned to follow whichever arrow suited her best at the time. Sometimes, she just wandered off-road because she saw a promising tree or clearing that she felt should lead to the city whose name she could not remember. She meandered straight into the path of steam vents multiple times, and Cynric would just barely manage pulling her away before she was scalded into her beloved Oblivion.

She began to learn, apparently, and became much stealthier in pulling up various herbs and flowers to eat. Sometimes, Cynric could swear that she was pretending to be confused about the direction just to swipe some creep clusters or dragon's tongue. The former put her straight to sleep and lost them a whole half day of traveling, but the latter turned Liar into an incessant talker. He did not think she could chatter even more than she already did, but he should never have underestimated her.

These parts of traveling with Liar were frustrating. Cynric often felt like a mother hen dealing with an oblivious toddler, and, as someone who spent most of his life as a self-sufficient loner, Cynric was unused to caring for someone else. He tried not to make his irritations obvious since Liar did none of this intentionally, but he was sure he let his emotions leak through at times. He hoped Liar was too oblivious to notice, but he could not be sure. She was oddly astute towards certain things and had sudden but fleeting moments of self-awareness that shattered the illusion of her being a simple idiot.

And yet, she managed to stumble over every rock in their path, topple into more thickets than a sleepwalking horse, and start an altercation with every single dangerous creature along the way.

After just one day— _one day_ —of traveling, they managed to run into three hagravens, two trolls, at least five wolves, a cave bear, and a sodding dragon. Liar was relatively unaffected by the first horde of terrifying creatures, but the dragon was another story.

They saw it from far enough that they could have simply walked past it; it was not even awake. Before Cynric could voice that plan, though, Liar was already dashing towards it with various squeals of delight that immediately woke the creature. It stood with a roar so loud that the rocky walls nearby trembled at the force, but Liar was unaffected. She just gaped in awe as the dragon flapped its massive wings and lifted off into the air. It shouted something, something not in Common, in a deep, rumbling voice, and Cynric thought Liar yelled something back, but he could not tell over the din.

Cynric drew his bow and nocked an arrow, but he had no idea what help he would be against a damned dragon. He had to get Liar out of there. The experience was incredible, Cynric had to admit, watching a dragon sweep across the land, its silvery scales glinting in the scant sunlight, but they had to leave if they wanted to appreciate any sight at all ever again. There was no way they could defeat a dragon; Cynric had even heard dragons were immortal and would simply resurrect themselves even after they seemed dead.

He tried to forcibly drag Liar out of there first, but that was an impossible task. Liar was _strong_ , much stronger than Cynric had anticipated, and she pulled herself free after only a slight struggle. The dragon then descended to hover in front of them, its maw glowed silver, and Cynric was fueled by enough terrified adrenaline to grab Liar and shove her to the ground. A blast of pure frost magic tore through the air above them and scoured the ground behind their feet. Cynric felt his skin on his back begin to crack and bruise, but he quickly poured some healing magic into himself before the frost could cause too much damage. Liar seemed unaffected as she leapt into the air and grinned gleefully.

" _Paaz shul grind!_ " she yelled at the beast. " _Los_ Liar!"

" _Bo. Nah. Gut,_ " the dragon rumbled back as it remained hovering. " _Zu'u bahlok!_ "

Liar laughed—actually _laughed_ —and spoke again. " _Kip jot naak!_ "

The dragon seemed to pause and look at Liar quizzically. " _Tinvaak hi Dovahzul?"_ it asked.

" _Geh!"_ Liar cried gleefully. _"Hi los brit!"_

The dragon gazed at Liar for a moment before descending to land directly in front of her. It lowered its head and puffed out a blast of icy wind into her face, but Liar did not flinch. "… _Hi los kril,"_ the dragon said decisvely, " _zu'u ni bahlok wa ofan dii sul_ _wah voth sahlo mal kiir."_ It flapped its wings and began to return to the air. " _Hi ni fen dir._ _Ru nu uv zu'u fen sizaan aaz._ "

 _"Kogaan!"_ Liar yelled back. _"Erei mu grind!"_

" _Kren sosaal!_ " the dragon roared, " _Hi fen dir fod daal!_ "

Before Cynric could even register that Liar had spoken Dragon Tongue and the dragon was speaking _back_ , Liar trotted to him and held out her hand. He took it and allowed her to pull him up, watching the dragon all along, but it seemed to be allowing them to leave for now. Maybe it was surprised that Liar could speak Dragon Tongue. Maybe it was not hungry. Maybe it was playing with them. Maybe it was tired. Gods, he did not know what was happening.

They fled—well, Cynric fled and Liar sauntered away—and continued journeying. The more they traveled, what with the dragons and the hagravens and the wolves and the thistles and the _dragons_ … the more Cynric wished he had not agreed to this little escapade. He was not only traumatized by the journey, but he also despised their intended destination.

Windhelm was a city of assholes who hated everyone but the Nords, and Jarl Ulfric was too busy waging a civil war to bother ruling his own city. Over the years, Windhelm had become rife with criminal activity, segregation, and severe poverty. The guards were lax and easily bribed, the streets were confusing and claustrophobic, and the weather was horrible. High Rock was a dry and lush place, so Cynric had had trouble adjusting to Skyrim's frigid climate and Windhelm seemed to always have the worst of it.

And yet, maybe this trip to Windhelm would be more enjoyable than any of the others. He felt that he had heard someone say that the quality of one's circumstances depended on the quality of one's companions. He supposed that meant his circumstances would at least be interesting.

* * *

 _okay, dovahzul:_

 _NB: I'm only going into this much detail for this one convo. for other dovahzul conversations, i'll have a more general translation_

 _this is the rough translation of the convo_

L: **hi i'm liar (she says as is only polite)**

D: **gtfo! I'm hungry!**

L: **bon appetit!**

D: **you speak dragon?**

L: **yeah! you're so pretty!**

D: **…you're brave and I'm lazy. you won't die. run before I change my mind.**

L: **thanks! see you later!**

D: **imma eff you up if you ever come back!**

 _xXxXxXx_

 _literal translation:_

L **: *paaz shul grind*** is "nice to meet you!"

 _\- literally "Fair Sun Meet"_

L **: *los liar*** is "[I] am Liar"

 _\- implied subjects are common in dovahzul_

D **: *bo nah gut*** is "leave!/begone from here!"

 _\- literally "Fly Fury Far"_

 _\- territorial connotations_

D **: *zu'u bahlok*** is "I am hungry"

 _\- or "i hunger", as the adj is same word as verb_

L **: *kip jot naak!*** is "happy eating"

 _\- literally "Food Maw Eat"_

D: ***tinvaak hi Dovahzul*** is "you speak Dovahzul"

L: ***geh*** is "yes"

L: ***hi los brit*** is "you are beautiful"

D: * **hi los kril*** is "you are brave"

D: * **zu'u ni bahlok wa ofan dii sul*** is "[and] I [do] not desire to give my time"

 _\- "and" and "do" are unnecessary and only used for clarity_

\- _"bahlok" has a violent/desirous connotation that can also mean long for/want_

D: * **wah voth sahlo mal kiir*** is "to [a] weak little child"

D: *hi ni fen dir ***** is "you not will die"

D: * **ru nu uv zu'u fen sizaan aaz*** is "flee now or I will lose mercy"

L: ***kogaan*** is blessings/thanks"

 _\- it can be an interjection, noun, or verb_

L **: *erei mu grind*** is "until we meet again **"**

D **: *kren sosaal*** is "break [and] bleed"

 _\- a common curse_

D **: *hi fen dir fod daal*** is "you will die if [you] return **"**

 _xXxXxXx_

 _ie, the compiled literal is:_

"Nice to meet you!" she yelled at the beast. "I'm Liar!"

"Leave. My. Territory _,_ " the dragon rumbled back as it remained hovering. "I am hungry!"

Liar laughed—actually _laughed_ —and spoke again. "Happy eating!"

The dragon seemed to pause and look at Liar quizzically. "You speak Dovahzul? _"_ it asked.

"Yes! _"_ Liar cried gleefully. _"_ You are beautiful! _"_

The dragon gazed at Liar for a moment before descending to land directly in front of her. I lowered its head and puffed out a blast of icy wind into her face, but Liar did not flinch. "...You are brave, _"_ the dragon said decisively, "and I do not desire to give my time to a weak little child. _"_ It flapped its wings and began to return to the air. "You not will die. Flee now or I will lose mercy _._ "

 _"_ Thanks! _"_ Liar yelled back. _"_ Until we meet again! _"_

"Break and bleed!" the dragon roared. "You will die if you return!"


	6. Kill Them Forthwith Kindness

_oi, second chapter in a row. cool. thanks **maximsk** for beta fishing and love long and pissper_

* * *

6\. Kill Them Forthwith Kindness

* * *

"I don't think you understand," I tell the man evenly. "She's not a spy, she's a Dunmer. You humans call them Dark Elves, which is terribly racist."

"All Dunmer are clearly Imperial spies!" the man snarls back, and I scrunch my eyes confusedly.

Everyone knows that the Altmer are the imperious ones and the Bosmer are the spies. All three are sneaky bastards but Bosmer and Altmer are just bastards. Dunmer are the only elves that are a little bit right about being superior to every other race of Mer and man. After all, Mer is a proper noun but man is not. That proves something.

But the man is still spitting angry words at me with his squinty eyes and fleshly lips. "We ought to execute her on the spot!" he shrieks.

I reflexively reach for my mace, but Cynric lightly touches my arm, pausing my action. I resume once he removes his fingers, but he has already stepped in front of me. Since my friend is standing between me and the man who said 'execute,' I cannot swing my mace and bash his skull in. 'Execute' is a fighting word. I fight people who say fighting words. If someone says 'fighting words,' though, that's not a fighting word, so I won't execute them.

"Listen," Cynric says in a measured voice. "There's no need for you all to trouble yourself in this cold weather. We'll make sure this Dark Elf isn't an Imperial spy, and we'll bring her to justice."

I am confused; Cynric seems to be echoing the executioner's words and yet Cynric is my friend and ought not to be executed. I suppose I should just wait things out for now, but I do not return my mace to my back. He could be an Imperial spy, after all, like all the dumb Mer.

"I'm sure you all would rather be at home, in front of a warm fire," Cynric says soothingly, and I must disagree. I love this place. There's so much snow and everyone looks angry. There's so much snow.

"Alright, but..." The executive man squints at Cynric. "Alright," he repeats. "Aye, you take care of the elf bitch and I might even buy ya a pint sometime."

"Of course," Cynric replies.

With one more grumble, the man and his companion and their accompanying bottles of mead-iocre beer-eaved alcoh-ale all stumble away wine-ing. _Oh, now that was good. If that were a soup, I would have chugged it like it were a bottle of… uh… oh, I forgot brandy!_ "I'm betraying my brand… y," I mumble, and then immediately chastise myself. _That was horrid_. Thankfully, Cynric does not comment, so I can only hope he did not hear. _Maybe I didn't say that aloud._ _Hopefully._

Cynric waits until the men are out of sight, and then he relaxes. I rest my mace against my shoulder and cast my eyes about thoughtfully while Cynric says something to the other someone standing somewhere here.

After Cynric saved me from a long bout of indecision at that crossroad, I have been following his lead until we got to the place we are now. It is a beautiful place, this city, covered in snow and formed of dark, crumbling stone that creates a confusing maze of alleyways and quarters and snowbanks. Stores and homes seem to be built directly into the walls, and it is all covered in snow. I really do love all the snow. We never had much snow in Morrowind, what with all the volcanoes and such, but this city is colder than anywhere I have ever been. It is beautiful, all covered in snow, and I love it.

Cynric seems to despise it here, especially since I am determined to spend as much time in the snow as possible. It really is quite nice, the snow. We have been here three days and he keeps trying to force me to wear a jacket or a cloak or "something heavier than some goddamn smallclothes," but I always refuse. I like how I look, and the cold is just so much snow and I just love the snow. The cold is wonderful, and this place is all covered in snow. Daedra above, I love all this snow.

"—Liar?"

A man taps me on the shoulder, so I blink at him. "I'm Liar," I say as is only polite.

"I know," the man says. "Did you hear me?"

I gaze at him vacantly for a few moments before a name snaps to mind. "Cynric," I state, and he nods. "I heard you, but I don't know what you said." _If snow could speak, I am sure it would have kind things to say. I sure do like snowy snow._

Cynric sighs. "I don't think we should stay much longer in Windhelm," he says. "This city is Windhelm," he quickly adds before I can ask.

His ability to guess my questions before I voice them has grown significantly over the days of travel. It makes conversations much easier on me and I can spend less time confused and more time eating plants I find on the road. Tomorrow, I think I will try one of those pretty blue berries that look like snowberries but are not as red. If I can find a giant, I will eat one of its toes since I can reach those. _More people should do that, but maybe the people who tried are dead._

"Why's that?" I ask him, making a valiant effort not to get distracted.

I will not get distracted by this place that is all covered in snow, and I do love the snow. I think I will eat the snow instead of the purples. I lean down to scoop some up into my hands, to feel the lovely snow that I love, but Cynric's vocal snow interrupts my cold musings.

"Well, everyone here hates Dark Elves," Cynric continues, "and I'm worried someone will figure out you're half Dark Elf." I snatch a handful of snow from the ground and have half of it in my mouth before I process Cynric's words.

I chew the snow quickly, reveling in the fact that pure cold has a _taste_. As soon as I finish my snack, I aim an alarmed stare at Cynric. "What?" I gasp. "Everyone hates me? Why? What'd I do? Who'd I kill?"

I pause thoughtfully and make to put more snow in my mouth, but my hand is empty. It is wet, though, which is strange. I do not remember jumping into a lake, but all the evidence proves that there must be an ocean nearby.

"Whom," I correct myself. "Whom'd I kill. No, whomed I killed…" I stare quizzically at the pure white snow. "…Aedra, someone got executed, didn't they?"

"What do you know about Skyrim's rebellion against the Empire?" Cynric asks patiently.

I sure do hope I have not killed someone that I did not mean to _. Did I kill that executioner? Or was I the executioner?_ At least there is no blood. Snow has the unfortunate trait of showing all the blood that has ever been ejected from a corpse, living or dead. I love snow but I hate blood, so I cannot be sure of my stance on bloodied snow. I do not think I would eat it, though.

"Ulfric Stormcloak wants Skyrim to be all independent and kick out everyone who isn't a Nord," I answer distractedly. _Snow is sparkly too, isn't it? It glitters and glows like an indigo… no, a golden._ "The Empire doesn't want to lose Skyrim and the Thalamor need to prove that they're superior by killing Talos worshipers, who are mostly Nords." I frown at the snow. _It's white, not golden. It's not even silver._ "Ulfric wants to kill those emperors, the Thalamor want to kill everyone, and the Imperial Legion is just kinda wandering around and trying to look like they have power," I finish.

"Uh... yeah," Cynric stammers. "That's not bad. Damn."

"My dad made sure I memorized all of Skyrim's history before he let me travel here," I explain to weather his confusion.

The memorization had not worked, but I remember bits and pieces because of how many times my father told me to repeat them over and over and over and over and repeat them over and over and over and over and repeat them. He thought the civil war with all the fictions was the most important bit of all the pieces because it was political. _That doesn't sound so bad to me, but I suppose tickling can be an awful experience for some._

"Well, you did a good job," Cynric states, and I smile.

"That's a kind thing to say," I reply. He laughs.

"It is," he agrees, "but it's also the truth." Before I can tell him that I never questioned whether it was the truth until he clarified that it was in fact the truth, Cynric continues his speaking. "This city here is Ulfric's base of operations," he says, "and, like you said, Ulfric hates just about everyone except Nords."

"Oh, so Dunmer are executed," I supply. "Everyone goes to the chopping block because heads are better to lose than to have." _I'm glad I don't have a head. My mace does, on the other hand, and it's quite beautifully decorated, if I do say so myself._ "It's quite beautifully decorated," I say so myself.

"Uh, not… necessarily executed," Cynric says nervously. "Just hated."

 _If only everyone were like snow…_ Snow does not hate. Snow just exists and smothers and gets salted and dies in the sun. Like vampires. Maybe that means the Falmer are vampires. "Then why do so many Dunmer live here?" I ask, only barely paying attention.

"Honestly...?" Cynric hesitates. "Honestly, I don't know."

"It's quite silly of them," I murmur. "Oh, is that why I haven't made any new friends?" I suddenly realize.

Except the snow. The snow is my friend. Every single bit of snow has a piece of friendship that will never melt, even though my heart is warm. And full of blood, but what does that matter? Snow drinks blood. Like the Falmer. Oh, except there is not much snow underground, is there? I wonder how they drink it, then. Maybe they eat it instead.

"Um." Cynric looks around sheepishly, begins to nod, and then stops himself. "Kind of," he answers. "Mostly, the people here are just assholes and they don't want to befriend anyone. I'm sure your skin color doesn't help matters, though."

"It's because the soup tastes like porridge," I inform him. "If Keerava were here, everyone would be much happier."

Cynric smiles softly. "You might be right about that," he says, "but if you don't want your soup to taste like porridge, you should stop ordering the porridge."

"I never order porridge," I retort, somewhat offended. "Porridge is for the poor. Plus, all of it has partridges; that's why it's called poor-tridge."

"Clearly," Cynric says dryly. "Now, should we go back to Riften?"

"Not without something interesting happing," I state. "All the happenings have been hapless."

Cynric keeps wanting to leave Underwhelm even though we just got here. If he will not give me the time to explore every cracked and confusing brick in this place, then I will have to do something else to help me remember the city, something big so that I _can_ remember a city so big.

"So… catching and killing the Butcher wasn't exciting enough for you?" Cynric inquires, and I shake my head furiously.

"Too much blood," I explain.

I doubt I will ever forget all the blood that went along with hunting down a mass murderer, and there is no way I will let that be the only memory I keep of this beautiful snow. The red in the beautiful snow was actually rather pretty, but the reminder that it was blood almost made me beg Cynric to not bother with the damn investigation. He seemed to enjoy solving the mystery and breaking into people's houses so much, though, that I forced myself to suck it up and not eat so that I would not vomit every ten minutes. I did eat snow, though. That did not make me vomit. I did not eat the blood-snow, though. That would make me vomit. _Oh, so that's what I think about bloodied snow. Pretty but disgusting and vomit-y. Good to snow._

But it is not good enough. I need something more enjoyable in my brain with which to leave. Then, we can go back to the Ridged Pigeon and say hello to all the other friends in Mercerif. Ten. I do not think I have ten friends yet, but maybe I do. _How much friend does the snow count as? Four?_ There are more than four snows, probably, but I am sure I have not met them all. I have eaten a few too. _Gods, did I kill my friends? I_ was _the executioner!_

"Hm…" Cynric muses for a few moments while I count off my friends to make sure nobody died.

Cynric, Keerava, leek soup, porridge, porridge with honey, honeyed mead, bunnies bleed… _Where did that come from?_ I do remember closing my eyes and chopping a hare's foot off, but I do not think I did anything with the hair. _I should really trim my hair before it gets too unruly, but Fenri always said—_

"We could break into the Keep and steal some shit for the Guild," Cynric proposes, and I blink. _No furnaces for fathoms around._

"I'm not a sneak thief," I remind him blankly. "I can pick lockets and pockets, but not hide in the snows like Brynjolf."

"Right," Cynric says thoughtfully. "Oblivion's sake, I don't know what else there is to do other than join the Stormcloaks."

I perk up at that. "Stormcloak? That's a nice name. I want that. Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu, Storm… Wind… Cape…" I sigh deeply. "No, too much to remember. Thundercape. We should be Thundercapes. With caps of lightning. Thundercapelightningcaps. Now _that_ would sound good at the end of my name. Valirerlillie Milvlsa Lledvasie—"

"Not joining the Stormcloaks," Cynric says hurriedly, perhaps a little panicked. "We are _not_ getting involved in this stupid war. I was joking."

"Who're the Corn…" I curse under my breath as the familiar word is whisked away with the wind. Again. _Wait, again? When did I gain that word?_ "No matter," I decide. "You should break into the Storm Keep and steal all of their outerwear." _They'll still have hats, though, and that's be a shame._ But I will not tell Cynric to steal hats, because I don't want to eat mine.

"But you're not a sneak thief," Cynric reminds me, as though I need reminding. I am not _that_ forgetful. If I remember correctly, that is.

I nod sagely. "Yes. You will sneak and thieve, and I will play in the snow." My friend. _Or friends._ I hope they're not dead. _Or deads._

"What?" Cynric asks cautiously. "You're going to… stay here? Outside the inn? And play in the snow? That's… interesting to you?"

"True," I agree. "It is exciting, isn't it." Without further ado, I flop down on my back in the snow and close my eyes. I do so enjoy snow. _I should try eating it, but that would be murder. Execution, almost._

"And you'll stay _right here_?" Snow-ric says.

"True," I reply. "You've got some good suggestions in you." I yawn, feeling comfortably drowsy in this fluffy pillow of soft, itty bitty balls of icy friendship.

I want to eat honey on snow. Daedra above, that would be divine. Like Talos. _Oh, those Thalamor really hate the divine, don't they._ Anyone who hates friendship honey should be hanged. Down with the Thalamor! Or, should I say up with the Thalamor? Down with the floor under the Thalamor who have been strung up with nooses around their necks! _What a mouthful of snow and honey._

"I…" Cynric seems hesitant and I can hear the snow crunching as he shifts his feet. _Oh, so the snow_ can _talk._ "You'll stay here? You won't get lost?"

"I'm never lost," I state. "I'm just not at my destination yet."

"Right, but you'll stay here?"

"This is where the snow is," I agree. "I will follow the honey."

Cynric is silent for a few more seconds, and I almost fall asleep. "Alright…" he finally says. "I'll be back by morning. Er, have fun in the snow."

"True," I mumble sleepily.

I lay there until Cynric's footsteps fade into the background, then get bored. I stand up, squelch myself into the inn and to my and Cynric's room. The innkeeper gives me a dirty look at all the liquid snow I am tracking in, and I can sympathize. I do not like liquid snow either, but it's her problem now which is preferable to it being my problem. I quickly change clothes so that the water doesn't have me all logged, then I drape my wet things across a chair and send them warm thoughts so that they might dry faster. After all, it's the thought that counts. _Gods, my number must be astronomical by now, but it's always worth adding one more._

Now that playing in the snow has proven to be boring, I decide I ought to fulfill my purpose: exploring. Why else did I come to this city, to this country, than to explore? I am sure there were and are other reasons, but I cannot remember them. I heft my mace over my shoulder, make sure my pouches are secure on my belt, and wade through the boring snow.

Just because it's boring, though, does not mean I can't wander aimlessly through it. _May'nt. The snow melts in May. A shame, that._ I wander aimlessly through snow for a while, thinking vague thoughts about nothing of import, and grow hopelessly lost in a matter of seconds. The streets here all look the same and their layout is even more confusing than Riften's or Mercer's. This may be a delightful city full of twists and turns and cobblestones and nooks and crannies, but it has no friends. I miss my friends in Riften more than I like whatever thoughts I just had. Like socks. _Thank Talos these boots are oiled, else I would have been tromping about in wet socks._

Unlike in Riften, no one makes a point to speak to me. In fact, all I get are suspicious glares and appreciative glances. The first worthwhile thing I see is after many minutes; it is a woman dragging her sobbing son away from a rather drab-looking house.

"But mama, I want to _play_!" the little boy screeches.

"I swear to Talos, child," the woman hisses as she drags his wriggling body through the snow. "There's an orphan boy with a corpse and, gods forbid, a _book_. Who in their right mind would let their child read a book?" She snorts as her child starts sobbing. "Books are ruining this generation. Back in my day, we all had to memorize anything important."

The boy sniffles and gazes at his mother with wide, sad eyes. "B-but mama, books have existed since before you were born," he says.

"And where in Oblivion did you hear that?" his mother cries. She grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him back and forth as he begins bawling again. "Did you read it? Huh? Did you read it in a goddamn book?"

"N-no!" the boy sobs.

"Good!" his mother retorts and lets go of him. "If you read a book, you will become an orphan, I swear to it."

"Y-you'll die, mama?" the boy asks fearfully as he and his mother trot past me.

"No, of course not," his mother says. "I'll just abandon you in the snow. You love playing in the snow, right?"

I love playing in the snow and I have always personally had trouble reading books, but I loved it when my father read to me as a child, so I'm a bit disgruntled by the silly woman and her anti-book propaganda. Just to spite her, I stride over to the house that the little boy had been trying to enter and pull open the door. _I will find the book and I will shove the book down the woman's throat so that she can_ really _digest the words._ And swallow her words. No, not _her_ words, just words. Unless she wrote the book. _Maybe that's why she's so vindictive; her book is awful._ That would be a good reason not to teach your child to read, I must admit.

When I enter the house, however, the place is empty or abandoned or ransacked or something along those lines. There is some dusty furniture scattered about and a few baubles and papers strewn about the floor. I can hear the wind whistling through cracks in the walls and roof, so this might count as outside, to be honest. There is no snow, however. _How sad._

As my eyes adjust to the gloomy, unsteady light, I realize there is a voice. In other words, this house is neither empty nor abandoned, although it may still be ransacked. Curious at the state of this place, I step forwards, following the sound of the voice. It is a child's voice but not the same one as outside. No, that child was bratty and hysterical, but this one is calm and absorbed in whatever task he is performing. _Maybe he's asleep._

The muttering only grows louder as I approach, and I eventually realize that the child is saying actual words and not just crazed mumblings of the sleep-talking. "Mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me…" he is whispering breathlessly when I halt behind him. It's hard to tell in the dimness, but it looks like he is huddled over something while making some dull thunking sound in time with his bobbing head. _Like a chicken child eating corn kernels._

He still has not noticed me, but this house does make lots of creepy noises so maybe he just thinks I am the house. My noises aren't creepy, though. They are dainty and delightful.

"Who's your mother, sweet mother?" I ask curiously, and the boy spins around with a gasp. "And then wouldn't that make _you_ her child, sweet child? Or… maybe you're a bastard, sweet bastard—is that it? Or… siblings? Sweet siblings? Were you separated at birth? Sugar."

"N-no, I'm an orphan," the boy stammers.

I nod thoughtfully. It's probably because of the book. He could still have siblings, though, since he is suspiciously avoiding that line of questioning. So much suspicion.

Suddenly, a grin overtakes the small boy's round face. "She listened!" he cries. "The Night Mother actually listened! Oh, I've been praying and praying and I was starting to lose hope, but here you are."

A slight draft from one of the many cracks in the rotting walls of this old house whistles forebodingly, but I quite like the resulting chill. The light around me flickers a bit strangely, though. Realizing that I am not sure where the light is coming from, since the moon does not usually flicker, I peer over the boy's head.

"Oh, ew!" I shriek, interrupting whatever the boy was saying about killing or something. "Ew, ew, is that _raw_? _Ew_!"

Behind the sweet-looking child is a grisly scene straight out of cult folklore. A human skeleton is lying contorted as though in muscular distress, the bones surrounded by oozing wet flesh and what looks to be a human heart. The flickering light source I noticed is a series of small candles arranged in a circle that encloses the entire grizzly cult bear. A wave of nausea fills me, and I fix my eyes back on the child.

Unfortunately, I notice that the boy is waving about a knife as he joyfully talks about his mother in that strange, impersonal manner. In an unwelcome moment of clarity, I connect the thunking noises with the notched blade of his weapon. I swallow hard and look beyond him again. Judging by the nicks in the skeleton's ribcage and the floor below, he has been stabbing the poor thing for quite some time. It was probably already dead before I arrived, so I do not know why he felt the need to stab it so many times.

"—kill Grelod the Kind," the scary child is saying excitedly when I stifle my nausea. "I'll have your payment on your return!"

"Okay," I agree immediately—anything to get out of this creepy small human's house of horrors.

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" the boy cries.

He sounds quite close to tears, and my heart throbs with sympathy. Of course, thinking about my heart throbbing reminds me that there is currently a bodiless heart just a few paces ahead of me, and that the boy's mother did a horrid job parenting him if he is collecting human flesh and stabbing skeletons. _Maybe children shouldn't read books after all._ I am fine because my dad read me stories and I never read much myself.

"You'll find her in Riften," the boy says eagerly, "in Honorhall Orphanage. Oh, but don't kill Sister Constance, please. She's very kind."

"Unlike Grelod the Kind," I surmise, and the boy nods furiously. "Well, all right then," I say even though I already agreed. "I'll see you later, kid."

"Aventus."

"Aventus to you as well," I reply. The kid is staring blankly, so I take that as my cue to leave.

I suppose I don't have anything better to do than kill this Grelod character, so I will make my way to Riften. I am a bit loathe to leave Windhelm, what with how cold it is, but everyone there is also rather cold, especially to the Dunmer living here. I cannot fathom why so many Dunmer bother living here when these Tempest Folks are obviously not keen on their presence, but apparently not everyone thinks as sensibly as I.

 _No strawberries grow this far north, do they?_ My store has rotted like the skeleton, but there are not any nice, dry bones about. Strawberry jam looks a bit like disemboweled intestines, but it is not. _What a good world._

It is difficult to tell the time of day in this city because of how often it snows, but if I started my trek in the evening, I am guessing that it's later than that. As such, I ought to return to the inn where Cynric and I were staying, but that introduces a problem: I do not know where the inn is. I'm as hopelessly lost as I was when I first began getting lost—perhaps more.

Well, better to be hopelessly lost than hopelessly found, I suppose. At least if you're lost, there's a chance of changing your situation. With that, I slog through the snow and consider what in Oblivion I just agreed to. I think I agreed to murder someone—the kid's orphan mother, was it?—and I don't think I've ever performed a premeditated killing before. I wonder if it's different from a postmeditated killing, but I can't really see how. In both cases, you're bashing someone's brains in and thinking about killing someone, just in a different order for each.

Now that I've meditated on murder, I think I'm ready to pre-form the act. I am not the biggest fan of killing orphans, but I suppose I shouldn't judge the worth of someone's life based on their parents or lack thereof. Still, going to an orphanage and killing a kind of Grelod seems like an odd request from an orphan. I guess it's the same old story: Nordphans killing Orphanords. Or, no, since I'm not an orphan I suppose that the orphan won't be killing the Nord. _When did suicide get mixed up in this? The little motherless stabby child doesn't expect me to kill the orphanage and then myself, right?_ That really doesn't seem like the kind of thing a kind orphanage without a mother-stabbing bookworm child would have me do. Then again, that doesn't seem like a kind of thing at all. I'm not a Nord, though, so I shouldn't be killing myself any time soon. _Books really are a bad influence on worms, aren't they._ But the worms get their revenge, the vindictive bastards with their munching little ink-sucking gnashers.

Apparently, Stormhat isn't nearly as difficult to navigate as I had thought. While I have been thinking about stormy worm children, the too-tall wall has remained on my right side and random buildings have been cropping up along my left. The path twists and turns, but I'm too distracted to be distracted by any intersections so I keep straight along it. It leads me straight to an alleyway that I do not recognize, and everything is even darker than the rest of the city. As I look about, I notice a shocking numner of Dunmer. Even though I grew up in Morrowind, though, I don't seem to recognize any of them. _How many Dunmer can exist at once?_

I am feeling quite sleepy now, so I turn and head into the first door I see. I almost trip on the ice, but the spikes in my mace that I slam into the ground keep me afloat. A drunken man who was yelling mean things about Dunmer trips and falls unlike myself, and I hold out my hand to him.

"I'm Liar," I say as is only polite. He replies something slurred that sounds like "Ralph Rock," so I nod. "Nice to meet you." He grasps for my hand, but I have gotten distracted by the sound of a sign swinging in the wind. The creaking is infuriating to my sensitive little ears, so I storm over to the source, ready to tell the sign what-for. "This nonsense is deplorable," I rebuke the swinging sign, but it does not react. "Halt these activities at once, you fiend!"

"Er… if you dislike the wind, do you want to… go inside?"

I look around for the voice origin, and notice a Dunmer man sitting on the snow below the sign. _People really shouldn't sit; I always think I'll step on them._ "I'll make you a chair," I offer him, and he narrows his eyes with visible confusion.

"I have my own chairs, thank you," the Dunmer says in a gruff but polite voice.

"I'm Liar," I say as is only polite.

"Sadri," the Dunmer says as he stands up and holds out his hand towards me. "Revyn Sadri."

I stare at his hand for a few moments, and then touch my index finger to his gently. He lowers his hand. There is a small stretch of silence.

"You can… put your hand down now," Revyn Sadri says. I comply, still a bit sleepy, and then a creaking sound distracts me. I look upwards to find a sign swinging back and forth. I am about to rebuke it for daring to be born when the Dunmer below the sign speaks again. "Please, come inside," he says kindly. "Just about everything you see is for sale."

"All right," I agree. He holds the door open for me, so I trot inside, flattered.

"Thanks for taking care of Rolff Stone-Fist," Revyn Sadri says as I cross the threshold. It is warm in here, but not overpoweringly so. The wind is gone, which is nice, so there are no swinging signs. "He can be a bother at times, especially when we're all trying to sleep." I do not remember aiding any rolled storkists, but Dunmer are a trustworthy lot, except for those Imperial spies running amok.

"Sleeping on the snow will kill you eventually," I tell him wisely. "Ralph Rock was sleeping on the ice, and you were in some snow yourself, if I remember clearly." I don't, but I did say if.

"Yes, that's… true," Revyn Sadri says. He moves so that he is behind the counter inside the room that I assume is a shop. I look about, but can't see a bed anywhere. _Maybe it's with the sheep._ "Welcome to Sadri's Used Wares."

"The snow _is_ soft," I admit, "but it's not a bed either. Fluffy wool pillows are closer."

"Oh, my home is above the shop," Revyn Sadri replies, and I nod.

"Ceilings would be a good place to hide a bed," I mumble thoughtfully. "No one looks at ceilings."

"Well, it's actually on the floor above—well, never mind that." Revyn Sadri smiles and gestures widely. "Anything pique your interest, friend?"

I spin around in a slow circle, seeing walls, a ceiling up high that does not have any sheep, a floor down below that does not have a bed above, and some shelves. Otherwise, there is that counter there. Curiosity piqued, I trot up to the counter and stare at it. It is wooden. There are some whorls of wood and some scratches.

"I want this," I state determinedly.

"What?" Revyn Sadri inquires. He's so close that if I lift my head right now, I would probably boop him on the nose with my skull.

"This," I repeat. For emphasis, I tap on the countertop with a fist. Not a stone one, though _. Rock hands might be useful, but they'd get all dusty real quick._ "I like it." I tilt my head uncomfortably to the side so that I can look at him without booping his nose with my skull. I want to, though, as one would boop a small puppy with a nose.

He blinks at me. "The…"

He looks around as though there is someone else in the room. I am tempted to follow suit so that I can greet the someone else in the room, but the first rule of haggling is to maintain unblinking eye contact. I try not to blink as I gaze straight into his crimson eyes.

I _will_ take his counter.


	7. Nothing Accounted For But the Counter Co

_maaaan, i deeply deeply apologize for that incredible and heart-pounding cliff hanger last chapter. i can't help but keep yall on your toes, but do not worry... all will be resolved... posthaste... or something... ye_

* * *

7\. Nothing Accounted For But the Counter Counted For

* * *

After a moment, Revyn Sadri looks back at me. He inhales sharply with surprise when he notices my unblinking gaze, but I do not blink. My eyes are getting a bit watery.

"It's, uh…" Revyn Sadri clears his throat. "The counter's not for sale," Revyn Sadri finally finishes.

"But I see it," I counter immediately.

I think an eyelash gets caught somewhere in the gelatinous part of my eyeball, because I feel a prick of ouchness. The afflicted eye twitches and starts seeping tears, but I hold it open with all the strength in my eye muscles. I remain unblinked.

"Uh, I was talking about the… items. The ones on display." He waves his hand to remind me that there are other things in the room, but I have made up my mind. He seems nervous as he watches me.

Nervous is good. Nervous is pliable. Nervous is haggle-able. Funny word, that. _Nervous_. Heh.

"The counter's an item," I retort.

My eye is itching up a storm, but I _will_ get what I want. I want to get what I want always, and I usually get to get it if I bash things hard enough or pock them from pickets, but I cannot pocket pick a counter, and bashing it would be detrimental towards the desired result.

"The… counter… isn't for sale," Revyn Sadri repeats slowly as if doubting his own words.

I feel a surge of confidence. If Revyn Sadri is doubting his own words, then I have a chance to get the counter. Doubt is the step after nervousness. All that is next is existential crisis and then mental break. Then, I will have my counter. My eye is hurting so much that I consider gouging it out just to stop the pain.

"A-are you okay?" Revyn Sadri asks while staring at me. _Good, he's nervous and doubtful. Exisistentialitis time!_ "Your… eye is really red. Do you need water or something?"

"Give me the counter or I'll gouge it out all over your store," I retort without thinking about it, but, in my defense, my eye is hurting up a store.

"Azura's sake!" Revyn Sadri shouts. "I… how do you expect… what do you _want_?" He leans forwards with his last word, and my personal space bubble pops along with my concentration.

I blink.

 _Gods above, on high, below, and underground! I almost had him!_

I can't stop blinking now, and I feel something get pushed out of my eyeball by the powers of saline. Tears dribble down my cheeks, into my mouth—I like the taste, so that's okay—and down my throat to drip across my chest. It is sexier than it sounds.

"Oh, don't cry!" Revyn Sadri himself cries desperately. "Fine! Fine! Take the counter! I don't care; just stop crying, please!"

I sniffle, struggling between abject depression of my failure to keep eye contact and overjoy of my success in haggling a counter out of Revyn Sadri's grip. Finally, the foreign material in my eye slides down my cheek and drops conveniently into the hand I was about to use to rub against my eyes and then put into my mouth so that I could drink the tears of the innocent. It takes me some time because of how blurry my sight is, but I eventually realize that the offending object is a small splinter, presumably from the counter.

With a proud smile, I hold up the splinter for Revyn Sadri to see. "I pickpocketed your counter!" I say victoriously, and then gently put the splinter into my bag. "I don't need the rest of it," I tell him.

"I'm…" Revyn Sadri pauses. "Okay."

"I'm Liar," I respond as is only polite.

"I know," he says.

We stand there in silence for a moment, so I decide to twirl slowly about again to find something else I will like. This is the first time I have managed to pick-poke with my eye, but I should begin perfecting the craft. _I managed to steal an entire counter, after all!_ Since it is hard to see things on shelves while I am standing away from all of them in the middle of the room, I toddle over to the shelves against the walls. I make sure to check the floor for wares there, but the floor-shelves seem bare of anything but a rug. I do not need a rug, though it might make a nice wig. _I don't need a wig, though, so no need to be more rugged._ The shelves seem to have normal things that people use like clothes and jewelry and wooden bowls and gourds and books and healing potions that I never need to use because I never get hurt. _A gourd wouldn't hurt._

And then, I see it.

"What's this?" I inquire, picking up a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that is displayed clearly in a display case.

"Hey, don't touch th—wasn't that case locked?"

I hold the beautiful piece of craftsmanship towards Revyn Sadri, who seems a bit nervous. _Good_. Next, he needs to doubt and then exit and then mind. _Or was it mine?_ This beautiful piece of craftsmanship is metal, after all.

"What's this?" I inquire.

Revyn Sadri clears his throat and straightens. "That, Ms. Liar,"— _Does he think I'm old?—"_ is Ysgramor's Soup Spoon," he says confidently.

I squint at the beautiful piece of craftsmanship. "...But it's a fork," I inform him.

"Not to Ysgramor," Revyn Sadri returns.

I shake my head furiously, studying the beautiful piece of craftsmanship from all angles. "I know my soup spoons," I tell him with as much gravitas as I can muster. "If this is a soup spoon, then I'm a liar."

"Er…"

"I may be Liar," I say, "but I'm not a liar."

"Ah, well, the story is that… Ysgramor used it as a soup spoon," Revyn Sadri tries to explain.

I refuse to acknowledge his so-called explanation, so I drown out his voice by tapping the fork hard against the glass display case. "This is a _fork_ ," I repeat furiously. "I don't care in all of Oblivion, Sovengard, Nirn, or Mundus, _who_ Ms. Grammar is but you do _not_ eat _soup_ with a _sodding fork!_ " I wave the fork about, consumed by rage. "All the soup will fall out!" I yell. "Maybe you could catch a chunk of flower cheese, but there will be no soupy goodness!"

Revyn Sadri seems to realize that I am close enough to stab him with this self-proclaimed 'soup spoon,' so he backs away slightly. I stomp right up to him and lean across the counter, staring straight into his eyes unblinkingly.

"Call this _fork_ a 'soup spoon' one more time, and your blasphemy will have you barred from Oblivion's gates," I hiss. There is a long silence this time where Revyn Sadri stares at me with wide, frightened eyes, and I hope that I do not catch another splinter before he breaks his mind.

Revyn Sadri takes a deep breath and scoots to the side uncomfortably. "I didn't name the damn thing," he grumbles. "I mean, it's not mi—Not that I stole it!" he suddenly adds loudly. He glances around with that telltale nervousness, so I must be about to buy something again. "None of this is stolen," he says.

I nod.

"I mean, Calixto was already dead at that point."

I nod; that sounds reasonable to me.

"It's not really stealing if the owner's dead, right?" he adds. _I do not know who Calico is, but he cannot be a he because every calico is a she._ At that moment, Revyn Sadri gasps. "Oh, actually I do have one stolen good!" he shouts.

"Thieves ought to be hanged," I advise him, and he winces. I pocket my well-earned forked spoon as I wait for him to fess up to his crimes.

"R-right," Revyn Sadri says.

He clears his throat and rifles through what must be hidden shelves behind the counter. After a moment, he places a small ring onto the table. I look at it silently. _It does not look like a thief, since it is a ring, but maybe it has some kind of enchantment that could be helpful for the elusive sneak thief._ It sits there on the table silently for a few moments, so I swipe it off the table and put it in the pouch with the soup fork.

"Oh, are you willing to return it?" Revyn Sadri asks.

I frown but take it out of my pouch and attempt to hand it back to him; Revyn Sadri does not take it. "I'm starting to get unwilling to return it," I warn him as my arm begins to grow tired.

"No, not to me!" Revyn Sadri cries. "To Viola Giordano!"

"But I didn't take it from her," I point out. "I took it from you."

"And the person who gave it to me took it from Viola," Revyn Sadri says.

I am rather confused by all this taking and grave nonsense, but someone is going to get hanged.

"If… you could do it discreetly, maybe put the ring in her house or on her person…" Revyn Sadri looks at me nervously as though expecting a reply. I do not have one, because he has not finished his sentence. "Er, that'd be nice if you could do that," he finishes.

"I can be nice," I snap automatically. _This is a challenge, and I will win this challenge._ "Leave it to me, friend. Vial of Jordan will be hanged within the year!"

"No!" Revyn Sadri says anxiously. "Just give it back to her without her knowing! That's it! You don't even need to _talk_ to her!"

I look at the ring that is still in my hand, wondering how it—sorry, _she_ —talks. "You're pretty," I whisper to her, but she stays silent. I frown at the obvious disdain. "I'm prettier," I whisper more harshly, yet she still does not reply. _That frigid bitch._

"Can I… well, can I trust you to do this for me?" Revyn Sadri asks, snapping me out of my staring contest. "I'd appreciate it very much. You can even keep the soup sp—the fork."

"What fork?" I inquire, and he breathes out a throaty chuckle. "The spoon shall be returned," I answer that other question he asked sometime gravely.

"It's not a spoon," Revyn Sadri says.

"Yes, it's a fork," I agree. "You're welcome within Oblivion's gates."

"Uh, thank you."

"Would you like to come along, Revyn Sadri?" I ask him politely, and he blinks his pretty red eyes at me.

All my family members had red eyes. It reminds me a bit of home. Sometimes, I miss home, which is sad, and sadness is not the point, unlike fork tines. Revyn Sadri seems like he will be a little slice of home, like a strawberry pie. _Evoshin always made the best strawberry pies._

"We could stop for pie," I add hopefully. "This is haggling. I give you something to butter your pie, and you agree so I get a spoon."

"Ah…" He seems doubtful, which is a good sign.

"I said that out loud, though," I realize. "I promise I'll buy the strawberries."

Revyn Sadri sighs a little but slides out from behind the counter. _That is a nice counter._ "It's outside store hours anyway," he mutters.

"Is that counter for sale?" I ask abruptly, entranced. _It might make a good pair of gloves. Or stockings._ I could put the mean people in the stocks and throw strawberries and honeyed pie. _Like knives, but less deadly._ Unless you have allergies, then you might be more likely to survive a knife toss. _That's why jugglers exist._

"Azura's sake, let's just go," Revyn Sadri says hurriedly. He brushes past me carefully and holds open the door. A gust of freezing wind makes me nice and happy, so I eagerly head outside.

As I leave Sad Used Underwears, I am satisfied that I have managed to purchase a counter, Ysgramor's harpoon, and a ring who thinks she is prettier than I am. Not only that, but I never spent a single septim! _I am truly a brilliant haggler._ I allow the ring to join the counter and the soup so that I can keep all my sadness together, and then decide to follow a path to get somewhere.

"You're okay dressed like that?" Revyn Sadri asks as he locks his shop up tight against everyone but myself. _It's kind of him to allow me inside if I want to._ "I have a jacket if you need one." He seems a bit concerned, but I wave that away.

"I'm a cold," I reassure him. "Nothing to bother."

"Right," he says. He himself is bundled up tightly in many a layer that looks as warm as a windy volcano. _Just like home._ "So… you're what?" he begins curiously. "Breton-Dunmer?"

I nod. "And you're Dunmer?"

He chuckles. "Yes. I came here after the…" He pauses, and when he next speaks, he seems a little choked up as though he breathed too close to that exploded volcano. _Smoke kills,_ I almost advise him, but he beats me to the porch. "After the Red Mountain eruption." He sighs longingly and stares up at the snowy sky. "I haven't gone back there since."

"I've never seen Morrowind before the volcano," I say. "Everyone says it was less deadly, but I still think it's pretty."

"Oh, you were born in Morrowind?" Revyn Sadri inquires, and I nod happily. The two of us step over the sleeping or dead form of Rock-Hand who is still sleeping or dead on ice. _Good for him._

"I didn't leave the house much because I'd get lost," I admit, "but the sky was always a little red and pretty. Like rotten strawberries."

Revyn Sadri chuckles and gives me a single nod. "It is different, but… Oh, I suppose I should visit one of these days. I don't know if I could handle seeing Vvanderfell again, though. I'd rather remember it as it was."

"I've never seen it," I say. "I didn't leave the house much because I'd get lost."

"There are lots of dangerous creatures around," he agrees, "but…" He looks at me critically up and down although he seems a bit baffled. "How old are you?"

"Uh…" I frown as I consider the numbers. "Well, I'm one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one"—I take a deep breath—"and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one."

"O-oh," Revyn Sadri stammers. "I… I see. What's that in, well… I'm not very good at human years, to be honest. Is that an adult age?"

I nod furiously. "See, we mortal mortals die quickly, so we become adults at… oh, I don't know… one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one." I somehow manage to say this all in one breath, so I should probably enchant something for waterbreathing to help others not breathe. _On the other hand, I could bet that I can breathe less than others and then I would win because I_ can _breathe less than the others._ Revyn Sadri did not interrupt me, which is nice, because most people do when I count. _The number one is my number one number of all the ones._

"That's not very much," Revyn Sadri replies hesitantly, and I nod. "At least, if you'd gone by Dunmer years, it would have taken much longer to finish."

"That is true," I agree. "That would be one and one and one and one and one…" This time, I decide to interrupt myself. "That _will_ be a lot. My sister is a lot over two-hundred and my brother is a little over seventy and my father is…" I hesitate, realizing that I do not remember. "Older than my sister," I manage.

"That's usually how it works with fathers," Revyn Sadri indulges me. "If your mother had been the Dunmer, you would still be a little child, eh?"

I laugh and nod. "I think so, but I'm not a patient patient, so this all works for me."

"That's good to hear," Revyn Sadri replies. "I always feel bad for you humans, living for such a short time and being unable to really enjoy the world."

"Absolutely _not_!" I yell fervently, and Revyn Sadri jumps in surprise. "We mortal mortals enjoy it _much_ more. All the Mer I've met spend much too much time wasting it! It would be so _boring_ to be a Mer that I don't know how you can stand it!"

"Oh," Revyn Sadri says, a bit baffled. "To each his—or her—own, I suppose. I'm glad that you don't mind. I thought all humans wanted to live as long as Mer."

"I don't want to outlive hundreds of kittens," I grumble, and he laughs loudly before quietly acknowledging my point. I will not waste any more time wasted on time, so focus on walking without falling on the ground icicles. _I should eat them and then I wouldn't fall and also my inside would be nice and chilly like my outside and it'd be a balanced universe._

"Where exactly are we going?" Revyn Sadri asks abruptly, looking around with a confused expression. "This is the Butcher's house."

I am the one looking around with a confused expression this time, but all I see are some roads and walls and houses and snow and icicles on the ground and on all the other things I mentioned. Few people are out and about at this time, probably wasting their time on things like sleeping in the middle of the night. "There _is_ strawberry jam splattered about the Butter's house," I say thoughtfully, "but it didn't look very tasty. I think I threw up the rest of the fruit that got jammed down my throat."

"That doesn't sound appetizing," Revyn Sadri muses. "Well, we can return the ring first and then head to the New Gnisis Cornerclub. At least it's warm there and they… might have pie."

"What ring?" I inquire as I allow him to lead the way to wherever he is going with me. "And what pie?"

"Viola Giordano's ring—the one I gave you," Revyn Sadri says a bit distractedly as he turns his head from side-to-side. He seems to be searching for something. I understand that feeling, especially now since I am searching for the elusive memory of this so-called 'ring'. I remember a so-called 'fork' of a Soven-guard and something about projectile knives, but not this 'splinter.' "The pie was what you wanted to eat," Revyn Sadri explains. "Strawberry pie, I think it was."

"I have good taste for tasty things," I agree. "Let's go ring up that pie."

He chuckles and agrees indulgently. "Her house is this way."

He points in a direction that I do not know, so I begin going that way. Unfortunately, there is a wall in the way, so I walk right into it. I mumble a small "ow," and Revyn Sadri rushes over.

"Azura's sake, you need to go _around_ the walls," he says in exasperation. He waves me into a direction that is not the one he pointed in.

"But that's the wrong direction," I point out.

"We can't go straight there because of the obstacles, Liar," he explains.

I frown. I overcome obstacles by tripping over rocks and walking through bushes. That's the way the world ought to be. I can vault over walls if I find a polearm, but there do not seem to be many around. _Ted and Robert have them in a hand, though. Good for them._

"Sometimes you have to go in different directions to get to your intended destination," Revyn Sadri continues.

I shake my head in disagreement even as I follow my guide through the dark streets. "If you're going in the wrong direction, you don't have the destination right," I inform him sullenly. "You go in directions and get somewhere so you're never going the wrong direction to get where."

"I don't know about that," Revyn Sadri says slowly, and then he shrugs, I think. It is difficult to tell with all those silly coats about. "Ah, it doesn't matter," he murmurs. "I suppose this is what you meant by humans enjoying life, eh?"

I stare at him confusedly, unsure to what he is referring, and then slip on a chunk of ice which catapults me into the wall nearby. This time, I hit the side of my head but repeat my "ow." Revyn Sadri turns to steady me with a soft sigh.

"You won't live long enough to arrive anywhere if you keep this up," he rebukes me sternly.

"Frost _dovahhe_ don't trip on ice," I challenge him as we continue our journey. "That would be embarrassing if they did, and they don't embarrass anyone except the dead people they eat and kill."

"Can't argue with that," Revyn Sadri tells me, and so it seems I have won this challenge even though I did not even make a bet. I posthumously bet on myself, then hand myself the mental winnings as I win this bet this time. "Then are you a Daedra-worshipper? Peryite?"

I nod wildly, and then shake my head wildly. "I love the Daedra," I effuse, "but Peryite has four legs, not two, so he's not a _real_ dragon. Molag Bal is more like a dragon what with his obsessive need to dominate all mortals and such. Mehrunes Dagon too, but dragons are stronger than him because he got beaten up by one." I glance at Revyn Sadri, who is watching me with great interest. "My sister made me a stuffed dragon and its name is Mehrunes Dragon."

Revyn Sadri bursts out laughing for so long that he has to wipe laughter tears from his eyes. "Oh, be careful saying too much of that out loud," he chuckles. "Mehrunes Dagon is not a Prince to antagonize."

I smile back at him and nod slightly. "Azura seems to like me," I explain, "so she and Molag Bal should turn into _dovahhe_ and keep Dagon from razoring me."

"I'm a follower of Azura myself," Revyn Sadri says. "But don't rely on the Princes too much," he warns me quickly. "They don't always have our best interests at heart."

"Oh, I know," I reply happily. "People here are silly, trying to please the good and kind Aedra when they really should be trying to get the ones not already on their side on their side."

"That's one reason," he says doubtfully. _Doubt is good. Doubt gets me splintered Wiggly Marred forks._

"And they're half my ancestors—the Daedra, that is," I add, and Revyn Sadri seems much more pleased by that answer. "I do like Akatosh a bit 'cause he can turn into a _dovah_ and fight Mehrunes Dagon and such," I admit, "but those Aedra aren't nearly as interesting as the Daedra. Daedra _do_ things," I continue fervently, "while Aedra just kinda… sit. Daedra live while Aedra exist." I feel very proud of myself at this consistent and informative explanation, but there are some things that I am quite clear-headed about. For some reason, the Daedra is one of those topics. I'm not bad with language either, but Common is all muddy and bruised and intolerable and silly. "I also talk about honey and strawberries and sometimes cinnamon," I realize. "Good, clear foods."

"I suppose those are all as good reasons as any," Revyn Sadri says slowly and then he nods. "And we'll get that pie _after_ we return the ring, yes?"

"Pie can have all three," I say happily, and the two of us continue to the ringed pie house. It does not take long to reach it, I can assume, because Revyn Sadri stops after only a short while and explains that this is the ring-bearer's house. He then looks at me expectantly and explains that I am the ring-bearer and the bear who lives in the house wants it instead of honey, which is rather depressing. Feeling a bit angry at the bear, I stalk to her door and throw the ring as hard as I can into it.

"You need to unlock the house first," Revyn Sadri tells me helpfully. He sounds a bit unsure at the moment, as though he thinks I don't know how to use a doorknob like an ugly person can. I prove him wrong by opening the doorknob and then throwing the ring as hard as I can into it.

"You need to put the ring _inside_ ," Revyn Sadri sighs. Angry now that the honey bear isn't accepting my bountiful offerings, I stomp into the house and track some wet snow-dirt onto her nice rug. I throw the ring as hard as I can into it, but I miss the rug and the ring breaks against the bare floor.

"Is… is someone there?" I hear a frightened she-bear call out. I consider saying "no," but that would be a lie, so I mutter a "yes" at the ring instead. It does not reply. I frown at it, trying to get it to go back together, but the Daedra of putting-things-back-together does not manifest itself and help.

I sigh heavily and tromp outside the house. I slam the door shut for good measure and Revyn Sadri gazes at me with wide, frightened eyes. He glances around furtively before he starts slinking away from the house quickly. He gestures frantically until I trot after him. Eventually, I hear the house shriek "my ring!" even though houses should not talk _. Maybe the Mendaedra_ did _appear and yell at it._

"I suppose it _is_ returned…" Revyn Sadri says hesitantly, "and she shouldn't be able to trace it back to me…" He sighs and turns to me reproachfully. "You could have been a little more subtle, you know."

"I'm not a sneak thief," I state.

"Well, you did a good job on that lock, in any case," Revyn Sadri compliments me, and I don't know which lock he means. _It was a ring, not a locket, but maybe I just missed the chain._ "Let's go to the New Gnisis Cornerclub and warm up, hm?"

I yawn, suddenly a bit sleepy again, but trot after him. _Warming up is a bit unnecessary, but a gnisis sounds like a fun thing to eat._ We chat a bit on our way to the Noodle Corn Cub, and it is mostly about me. Most people don't ask about me because I'm not interested in them, but Revyn Sadri seems rather intrigued about my life and family in Morrowind. It still makes me a bit wistful, but Revyn Sadri seems happy to listen so it makes me happy to listen to myself speak as I am accustomed except just not about myself. I am enjoying myself so much that I'm not even wasting time as it passes.


	8. Assess, Assume, Assass Inate

_okay it's pissing me off that u can't have a . in the official title drop down thing so the name of this chapter looks fuckin weird out there. bOTHERS me_

 _anywho_

 _as hallways, gr8 thx to_ **maximsk** _for being a fish. ya'll are the mans. time for some badass action sequences BOOM BAM BADUUM death_

* * *

8\. Assess, Assume, Assass. Inate.

* * *

With a belly full of warm pie and a while of trekking through the city, I do indeed get somewhere. In fact, I think I get to a large pair of doors that looks like the gate to the city that I recognize from some other time. _What a coincidence!_ Even more coincidentally is a recognizable voice that wafts over to me from said coincidence.

"—hard to miss. If you saw her, you'd remember," Cynric is telling one of the gate guards. The tone of his voice is worried, and the guard is nodding furiously.

"I'm sure I would," he says. "She sounds very likeable, from the way you described her!"

"Remembering is more difficult than you're making it out to be," I say doubtfully as I approach the pair. The guard's gaze travels to me and then immediately focuses.

"I don't remember her," he tells Cynric, "but is this the her, perhaps?" I notice that Cynric is holding a piece of paper in his hands, and I tilt my head as far down as it will go so that I can maybe see it. I cannot.

"I'm Liar," I say to the guard as is only polite.

"Ah, it _is_ her!" the guard replies happily. "I am—"

"Gods, Liar!" Cynric interrupts rather impolitely. He spins on me with an unprecedented glare that I notice out of the corner of my eye, as I am squinting, still trying to determine the paper's use. "Where the fuck were you?" he shouts. "You said you'd stay right there!"

While I wonder if this is not Cynric at all but a Dremora sent to drag me into feelings of malice, the guard pipes up. "Morning, Liar!" he says jovially. I look up at him, never having been described as a time of day before. "I was hopin' you could spare some time to hear about the plight of the Nords." I nod, even as Cynric tries to interrupt again. "Good!" the guard replies gladly. I am glad to have made him glad, so I wait for the effusion of his gladness. He gladly holds out a piece of paper, and I take it reflexively but also gladly. "See, we Nords have been under the heavy hand of the Empire for too long," he effuses, and I nod along gravely. _He did give me a present, after all._ "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak is trying to give us the freedom to govern ourselves, and I think that's just grand."

I nod. "Freedom is grand," I agree. "Trying is difficult, though."

"Liar—"

"Exactly!" the guard cries, this time interrupting Cynric. _It's a sort of justice, I suppose._ The guard waves the papers in his hand, and I follow the movement with my eyes. _It makes pretty patterns along the background,_ I think. "It's thanks to volunteers like you kind folks that we can even begin to resist the Empire and them racist Thalamor," he explains.

I nod. "Racism is bad," I agree, "and emperors die."

"Unlike freedom!" the guard adds. I nod. "Now, if you look at the front of that pamphlet there…" He waits, so I keep nodding.

"Liar, are you _done_?" Cynric hisses, and I stop nodding so that I can shake my head.

"Here you go, friend," the guard says gently before reaching forwards and turning the pamphlet in my hands so that I am looking at the front of the pamphlet there. He taps at it, and I squint. "Skyrim is in dire need of recruits to join the Stormcloaks, and we offer many benefits to all who apply. All you need is to kill a beastie or two—maybe an ice wraith or some such—and you'll be set right up!"

"Ohh," I say as I stare at the paper. I am not quite sure what I'm looking at, but it seems to be some sort of paper.

"Liar, we're not joining the damned Stormcloaks," Cynric snaps, but I wave the pamphlet at him.

"Now hold it right there," I rebuke him, still waving the paper that is fluttering quite prettily in the wind, unlike signs. "I like many benefits and killing."

"Then you'll fit right in!" the guard metaphorically cries in joy. "You'll even get a complementary set of armor and a nice, steel weapon."

I do not particularly want any new weapons or armor, but I do enjoy compliments. "I've never fit right in before," I tell him, and he laughs. Cynric groans.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true, Liar," is the guard's immediate and sincere reply. "You look like a good sort."

"I am a good sort," I reply in surprise. I am usually the one thinking that others are good sorts and the like, but this guard has used my own words against me! "You're a good sort yourself."

"That's a kind thing to say," the guard returns.

"No, that's a kind thing to _say_ ," I return right back. "We should be bosom friends."

"For shit's sake," Cynric mutters.

I look at the paper again and tilt my head to the side. "It's…" I shake my head, trying to reset my focus, but the paper does not change. "Where are the pictures?" I ask.

"Ah, I'm not much of an artist, see," the guard begins, "so I didn't make any pictures. I do apologize."

With a frown, I open my fist and allow the pamphlet to flutter to the cobblestones below. "I'm sorry," I say, feeling tears prick at the corner of my eyes. My bosomic heart breaks like a Bosmer fallen off a cliff. "This just… it won't work."

The guard's face falls as his gaze fall-ows the Descent of the Pamphlet. "I'm sorry to hear that," he replies with his own personal sadness. "I respect your decision as a free member of our Skyrim community, but I also hope that you might pick up that piece of paper there?" He points at the Descended Pamphlet. "I wouldn't want one of our stray dogs to choke on it."

I gasp in utter shock and horror before immediately snatching the paper from off the ground. I look about frantically, searching for the barest hint of an injured or deceased or in pain dog, but, thankfully, there are none to be found. I do see a perfectly healthy if a bit starving dog staring at me with bloodshot, hungry eyes and foam frothing at its mouth. I sniffle as tears and snot runs down my beautiful face like a painting. "I almost killed you," I whisper to it, and the dog gives me a low, threatening growl. "...I deserve that," I murmur and lower my head in shame.

"With free sons and daughters of Skyrim about," the guard interjects consolingly as he hands me a handkerchief, "I'd hope that the casualty rate of dogs choking on refuse will decrease by at least three percent. Perhaps you could make that number even better!"

I wipe my hands with his little fabric and look up at him with the smallest glimmer of hope. "And all I have to do is kill things and get free armor?" I inquire. The guard nods. "Then… I think I would like…" I demurely wave my square fabric at him. He tries to snatch it, but I demurely pull it away just in time. It becomes an intense game of keep-away until he accidentally grabs my hand. We both pause. I appreciate the fact that he is warming my hand which is actually rather prickly cold, but his face is beginning to redden in a blush.

"Liar, there's a puppy and a baby saber cat becoming friends over there!" Cynric suddenly shouts, and I whip around, the handkerchief being snatched by the wind now and flying away. The guard gasps and runs after it. I search frantically, disappointed to see that the healthy starving foaming dog has disappeared, but I also cannot see the unlikely animal friends about. _This was the best day of my life, but now it's the worst._ "They're… uh, this way," Cynric says.

 _This is the best day of my life._

He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me towards the inn in which we are staying in. The moment he steps through the door, he lets me go. "Well damn," he mutters, "looks like they left the inn. No catching them now." Before I can rush through the door to go catching them now, Cynric grabs my wrist again and practically drags me to a table in the corner. I reluctantly sit down, but I keep an eye out for the unlikely animal friends.

 _This is the worst day of my life._

"I've been worried sick," Cynric interjects in an angry but quiet tone. "You said you'd stay here until I came back." His voice practically drags me to the table in the corner, so I look at him curiously.

 _This is a day of my life._

"I played in the snow," I explain, and he groans heavily. "It was just other snow than the snow here. There's lots of snow around."

"You… that's a goddamn loophole," he snaps. "Just…" He sighs and rubs his forehead, all his frustration draining into a defeated sort of exhaustion. "I thought you'd gotten arrested or attacked or something like that. What were you doing for the entire night?"

"Entire night?" I repeat dumbly. "When is it?"

"About four hours past dawn," he replies. I try to imagine the marching of time in my head, how it moves forwards and never backwards, but I cannot reconcile my perception of the current time with what Cynric says is the current arrow time. "I left you yesterday at dusk," he adds as though aware of my confusion. "It's the next morning now."

I narrow my eyes and again try to calculate how that is possible. "How is that possible?" I ask after I fail miserably.

"That's… rhetorical, right?"

I hesitate, considering whether I need an explanation. Maybe I do not actually understand time and it skips about like a stone. _I have never been good at that._ Whenever I throw a pebble it just sinks. My siblings used to tease me endlessly for my inability to skip the stones, unlike time. "I lost track of it," I admit slowly. "Not the stones. The… skipping. I thought it was before now."

"Well… that's a little better," Cynric mutters.

"I've never actually had a bedtime," I inform him.

"This…" Cynric sighs. "This isn't some curfew. I just… got worried."

"Staying put is not something I do," I inform him.

"No shit," he snaps back, and then mutters an apology. He pushes back his hood and runs his fingers distractedly through his cropped hair. Now that his face is no longer shadowed like a sneak thief, I can see the dark circles under his eyes and the worried crease on his forehead. _Everyone wastes time being worried. It's rather silly, isn't it?_ So many of them worry about me, but I do not need to be worried. _Worried about._

"Worrying is for warts," I inform him. "The only thing worse than that is war. War-ied."

"That's not a word," he responds tiredly.

"Yeah?" I challenge him. "Who decides what word is a word, huh? Some stuffy scholar up on a mountain who decided to smash letters together and say this means that means this? Well, I can be a stuffy scholar too without stuffing scholars at all! Smashing words like smashing skulls. I'm good at that."

"Can't argue with that," Cynric admits with a smile twitching on his face.

He does not want to smile; I can tell. That's a ridiculous notion, however. Why would someone not want to smile? Isn't the purpose of life to be happy? Or is life just a hapless hoax controlled by horrible whores? P _ower-whores, not normal whores._ Most normal whores have horrible lives. Whore-ibble lives. _See? The words I make up are much less horrible than those letter-whores on a mountain somewhere stuffing themselves with skulls._ Skulks. No that is a stupid word, and I do not even know why it exists. _The stuffed scholars skulking in their scraggly beards messed up making that word, but I guess that's why they're victims of taxidermists._

"Do you think it would be nice to have dead animals hanging on the walls?" I blurt out. "Filled with fuzz but without a body. Maybe they use the fur from the rest of the body to make the filling, like a turkey."

"I... what?" Cynric stammers, his eyes wide instead of downcast. "That doesn't... ah, I-I guess it's a matter of taste?"

I laugh. "No, I don't eat meat!"

Cynric's smile returns without twitching. He is happy to be happy now, so that is a good change, I suppose. _Strange people, people. Always pulling their baggage about and badgering others about bad luck._ But what about good luck? Everyone has much too much good luck to gush about, and yet they only remember the lack of luck. Charms help, like rabbits. And being charming. Charmed rabbits are easier to take feet from. And lives. _And yet people think_ I'm _mad._

"Alright, so what'd you do while I was off making Jarl Ulfric destitute?" Cynric inquires, still smiling. He does not seem angry at me anymore. He should not have been angry in the first place, but I can forgive him since I have a flat-footed rabbit.

"Well," I begin thoughtfully, trying to remember my night's activities. _This might be difficult._ "I napped in the snow for a bit," I recall, "and then it wasn't snow any longer so I walked through proper snow and it was cold but—"

"Okay, okay," Cynric interrupts. "I get it. You just walked around the city."

"No, and I met a child. He could read."

"Alright," Cynric says. "Anything else important?"

"A drunk man fell."

Cynric sighs. "Anything _important_ , I said."

I think a little harder, which is a lot harder. "I stole a counter from my new friend, Revyn Sadri."

"Oblivion's sake…"

For Oblivion's sake, I think hard for a few moments, my muddled mind having difficulty with this simple action, but I am sure there's something about grilled kindness in there somewhere. Dead meat. Dead meat, grilled kindness, and orphaned nights. _Gods, did I somehow grill dead orphans in the night? I damn well hope not! Orphans aren't people, after all._

"Oh," I realize. "I met a literate child."

"You said that," Cynric states. I nod because that is true. I did say that. It was kind of him to notice. Cynric stares at me, waiting for something, but I cannot fathom what he expects in those fathomless eyes of his. _If I can't fathom, am I fathomless? Who decided that wasn't the case? It's unfathomable!_

"What does the literate child have to do with anything?" Cynric asks patiently as I consider the reasoning behind the various uses of fathoms— _oh, that's a measurement, isn't it? This is ridiculous! Unfathomably so!_ No, I already used that. Fathom.

"The literate child wants me to kill Grelod the Kind," I explain distractedly. "She's at Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, so I'm going to go to Riften and be an assassin who uses a mace and can't sneak for the life of me." _Her. Meher. Mermie._ "Mermaid," I decide. "Have you ever seen one? Time for a competition. Like the briers, you incompetent! Oh, and I can't kill my consistent sister. Constant. Sister of Incontinence."

"Wait, a child asked you to assassinate someone?" Cynric yelps. "What in the name of Talos? What did you _do_?"

"No, an _orphan_ asked me to assassinate someone," I harrumph. I yawn and stand up abruptly. _No time like the present to be present myself._ "I'm going to present myself to Riften and kill things. You want to come?" I ask. Cynric stares at me, his eyes wide with fathom. "I know I promised I'd go back to Riften with you, but I really need to go to Riften first."

"Er..." Cynric looks around and then shrugs. "That sounds good, yeah. Let's go to Riften and then... we can go to Riften?"

"Sounds brilliant!" I crow. "I've always wanted to pet one."

"Pet a what?" Cynric asks as he stands up as well. He yawns widely.

"A pet raven, of course," I retort.

"Of course," he says with another smile. "Let's get some rest since neither of us got any last night, and then we can leave for Riften and then Riften."

"Sounds brilliant," I reply. We will leave with the sun shining brilliantly through all the windows. _I don't think the sun flickers either._

xXxXxXx

I wake up in an abandoned shack—no _The_ Abandoned Shack. How do I know it's The Abandoned Shack? I don't know. I just do know. Life is lucky that way. And for the life of me, I can't fathom why I'm waking up in The Abandoned Shack. Strangely enough, though, I clearly remember the events leading up to this inexact moment right here:

 _"Oh," I read lives. "I met a liberated char." Cynric gazes for something, but I can't fathom fathomlessly. Who wasn't a case? It's an unfather!_

 _"Something, something, child, something?" Cynric asks impotently as I don't recall the various uses of measurement. Fathom._

 _"Something about grills," I explode distinctly. "Fish is honored. Rifle through an assassin who eats the life of me. Mercer. Sister of Inconstinants."_

 _"Wait, someone?" Cynric barks. "What did Talos do?"_

 _"No," I yawn. Then I'm presentable. "I have a present for Riften and killing thorns. You're staring?" I fathom Cynric. "Something promises Riften, but that's not it."_

 _"I shrug..." Cynric errs. "Yummy. Let's eat and eat ruffians?"_

 _"Looks brilliant!" I cow. "I want the pet of one."_

 _"One pet?" Cynric yawns up._

 _"A pet," I resort._

 _"Oh," he again says or something. "Sleep, titty bear!"_

 _"Boobs," I reply. The sun is a woman._

And then I went to bed and now I am here. _Oh, Cynric, that worrywart, is probably terrified wartless for me right now._ If I, Liar, am being completely honest, I am a bit confused about all of this myself. Sudden teleportation to an unfamiliar The Abandoned Shack somewhere that probably is not where I just was, is somewhat baffling. On the other hand, this is not the first time I've woken up in a strange place with no memory of how I got there. For all I know, I just wandered here and it's actually been three decades since I last spoke to Cynric. I look at my hands _. No liver spots and wrinkles, thankfully, but I could just be a_ dovah _._ Usually, though, I have bits and pieces of the journey, and I think I would remember ascending into elemental immortality.

Well, might as well find a _dovah_ to fly me somewhere with abandon.

I stand up unsteadily, feeling for a lump on my liver or my head or something similar that could explain the complete and utter blank in my memory. There is nothing, but my finger does get caught in a thick tangle of my hair. I frown and tug, then squeak in pain as I start to rip out my hair. _No, this will not do._ I bite my bottom lip in concentration as I try to slip my finger out of the mass of matted hair, but it is a grueling, unsavory process. A few seconds of tugging is about all I can handle before I get bored of it all _. I suppose I'll just live like this for the rest of life. There are worse ways to live: I could have a regular person's body._ I shudder at the thought, but it does not dislodge the finger that is caught. _Not poetic, that._

"Ah, you are awake, I see."

I jump in surprise and nearly tear out a chunk of my skull in the process, as though I had smashed myself in the head with a mace— _but I thought I already ruled out Nordic suicide?_ However, I am nearly certain that I did not speak just now, so that means I am having auditory hallucinations or there is someone else in the room. I look around wildly, my finger tugging painfully at my hair with every swing of my head. There are three people at the far side of the room, all of them on their knees, bound, and with hoods over their heads. They are saying things pleadingly and such, but none of them are the voice I'm looking for.

"It's come to my attention that—"

"Show yourself, fiend!" I yell and reach for my mace. I draw it awkwardly with my right, non-dominant hand and brandish the pointy end towards a wall that is not occupied by gibbering bondage slaves. I can't see the voice anywhere.

"One of these poor sods—"

"Begone, demon!" I shout and wave my mace about. I overestimate the swing, however, and stumble, off-balance. I barely manage to keep my footing by slamming my mace against the ground and using it as a crutch. The wood floor splinters a bit under the force of my swing, and I hear a little screech.

"By Sithis, woman, calm yourself and listen to me!"

"Never!" I attempt to put my hands over my ears but both are currently occupied with respective unresolved issues. "I will not be tempted by your vile—"

"I'm not a—"

"—temptations, you terrible temptress!"

"If you look behind y—"

"Show yourself, or I will be forced to eat your head!" I shout. "I am a vegetable eater, you potato! Feel m—"

"I'm up here, dammit!"

"—y fire breath!"

At her interruptive words, I pause and swivel my head upwards, toward the ceiling. Generally, I don't look at ceilings. Very few things of interest are on ceilings except the occasional spider or assassin or spider ass assassin sassafrasson spider of bed of sheep, but there is a woman on this one. More specifically, she is perched on a rafter in the corner. _She must be a spider._

"Hello," I say amicably now that I know that this probably might not be some kind of evil Dremora succubus. She does look a bit like the evil type, though, what with her pitch back, tightly-fitted robes and a lowered hood.

Cynric has a hood too. I don't think this is Cynric, though. I squint my eyes suspiciously but am unable to tell who this person is. _Maybe it is Cynric. It's revenge for making him worried, which was already silly._

"Finally," the woman mutters.

The woman swings her leg in irritation and crosses her arms, staying balanced on the beam in an awe-inspiring display of athleticism. I assume she is the sadist in The Abandoned Shack dynamic going on around here. I applaud her by banging my mace against the floor, and the sound shuts up the three sniveling masochists on the other side of the room which is also the other side of the shack. _Strange how relative space works._ I glance down to find the space occupied by the floor is crunched up by mace stabs. _Applause can be a dangerous thing._

I look back up at the other dangerous thing. "I'm Liar," I say as is only polite. Deciding that the sadist is not going to immediately kill me, I clumsily return my mace to its sheath on my back and smile at her. "Do you have a knife?" I ask. "My hair is stuck to my hand."

"What are you talking about?" the spider woman hisses dangerously. I wiggle my hand caught in the spiderweb of hair, and she gives a heavy sigh in return. _I don't want her to eat my hand, but who am I to go against the food chain? I'm Liar, that's who!_ "Fine, fine." The woman sighs again and then, faster than my gorgeous eyes can follow, throws a knife so hard that it sticks into the ground right in front of my feet.

"You missed," I inform her. Just in case, though, I count all my toes by wriggling them in my boots. Seems like I have ten still, which I believe is the normal number for at least one foot.

The thought occurs to me that there is now a convenient knife at my feet which could conveniently untangle my hair. With a gleeful smile, I jerk the knife out of the wood. I have two options now: lop off my fingers or lop off my hair. I'm loathe to lop off my hair, but this is my dominant hand I'm talking about. If my right hand were stuck like this, I would probably saw through sinew and bone without a second thought. Losing a finger on my left hand, though, might impede my ability to bash heads in.

Oh, I do not want to cut my hair. My sister is the only one who cuts my hair, so I have not done a thing with it since she last performed follicle surgery. She made me promise not to cut my hair on my own, I remember, in fear that I might accidentally saw my head off. I cannot break a promise, no matter how important my left fingers are. _At least it's my index finger. I can still wear a wedding band._ But maybe a full orchestra would be a bit too heavy for my finger. I might need to use my whole hand for that, but I suppose I won't have my whole hand after this.

I sigh in defeat and lift my right hand, all five beautiful fingers curled around the hilt of the knife. It is difficult, cutting through flesh and bone without being able to see the aforementioned flesh and bone, but I'm sure I can manage it. I'll just pretend I'm performing bunny surgery in the darkness. _It'll be an adventure!_ Excited by the thought of adventure, I probe about with the knife until I feel the sharp blade touch my left index finger.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath in anticipation, and strike with the blade. I feel a slight tug, and suddenly my left hand is free. It did not hurt as much as I thought.

"You missed," the woman in the rafters says dryly, and I snap my eyes open, having forgotten her presence completely. _She's as still as a corpse, this one, but hopefully won't empty her bowels and begin decomposing in front of me._ "You swung the knife upwards, not down."

Surprised, I look down at my left hand. Sure enough, all one, two, three, four, five fingers are intact. I use my newly freed left hand to pat at my hair—careful not to get it all tangled again—but there are no sliced chunks falling out. I inspect the floor next, but there are neither fingers nor chunks of hair there either. _I suppose I just pulled my finger out._ Now that the knife is useless, I throw it to the ground like the rafter sadist did, but it only clatters sideways against the floor. Since a nesting spider bird can't possibly be a better knife-thrower than I, who has never once thrown a knife before, I must have done it correctly. _I'm a prodigy_.

"Now that you have solved your dilemma," the woman continues, clear exasperation in her voice, "let's get down to business."

"But you're _up_ to something," I remind her, and she sighs.

"Sithis help me," she mutters. She clears her throat. "You have stolen from the Night Mother," she says mysteriously, her tone suddenly tranquil and controlled. "Now you must pay your debts."

"Oh, Daedra, you're a loan shark," I gasp. I look around, panicked, for a way out, but there only seems to be a boarded up door that's too far away for me to bother running to. _First a spider, then a bird, and now a shark? She's a were-animal!_ "If you try to take my hard-stolen money, I will steal your eyeballs!" I threaten the perched sparrow sadist with her spidery shark teeth.

"This is ridiculous!" the woman shouts and waves her hands.

She should have fallen off because of that wild gesture, but she remains on her sparrow perch like a shark. _Perhaps she's impaled by the sparrow-repellent spikes and she can't fall off. Or stuck to her web because she's a bad spider. Should I help her?_

"Look, since you took a contract that wasn't yours to take, you have to kill one of these sodding sods, and then you can join the Brotherhood. Maybe. Just... go kill someone."

"I'm already supposed to kill a kind lady," I admit, "so I can hardly take _another_ assassination. It'd be insulting to the bloodthirsty literature if I promised to kill someone else before I kill his someone."

"Wait..." the woman says, clearly baffled. "If I understood those words, which I'm not certain I did… You didn't kill Grelod the Kind?"

"Did I even have time?" I ask quizzically. "I'm still in Whitewind, right?"

"I…" The woman pauses. "I just assumed you traveled fast," she answers lamely.

I shake my head. "I don't think so," I reply. "I met the motherless child with the candles, but you snatched me up before I could finish burning the incense. It masks the smell of dead decomposing corpses, you know," I say knowledgeably. "Just a fun fact for you."

"Yes," she retorts impatiently, "I'm an assassin. I know—"

"What? _I_ was supposed to be the assassin!" I yell furiously. "You stole my kill! I wanted the experience, but you stole it!"

"I didn't fucking kill Grelod!" the woman yells back. She still manages to keep her perch even though she is clearly angry. _Angry people are unbalanced and unbalanced people fall, but not this unbalanced person. For an unbalanced person, she's surprisingly balanced._ "I'm trying to find who killed Grelod! I thought it was you! I guess it's not! All this damn work for nothing!"

"I'm—"

"Ohh, _no_ , you don't get to apologize," the sparrow chirps screechingly even though I was not going to apologize. _Maybe she's actually a pigeon cooing constantly. Sister._ "Do you know how long it takes to drag three—no, _four_ —unconscious bodies to a nondescript location miles away from the nearest road? Well? Do you?"

"I've never—"

"That's what I thought!" she yells. "Now I have to kill you because you saw my face and know my name, dammit!"

"But I don't know you're name and such," I remind her.

She snarls. "That's how you want to play it, huh? Well, no need to strongarm me." With a flourish, she throws back her hood to reveal a plain-looking middle-aged woman with blonde hair. I am unimpressed. _I expected a red-eyed, purple-skinned troll-baby with saber cat fangs and a dominatrix whip._ "My name is Astrid, you bitch, and I'm the leader of the Dark Brotherhood!" She grins savagely at me, clearly waiting for a gasp of reverence and a heartfelt sacrifice.

"What's that?" I inquire.

Her face purples, and I feel hopeful that she might actually turn into the creature I envisioned, but she only stares at me in fury. "You... you answered the Black Sacrament!" she shrieks. "How do you not know what the Dark Brotherhood is? We're feared across Tamriel! No one is safe, no matter how isolated and unknown they are! Fear us!"

I look around quizzically, but I only see the one lady. And the masochists, I suppose, but I do not think they're assassins. _No, that'd be against their characters as masochists._

Ass-red sighs heavily, and I glance up to find her rubbing the purple out of her face. _It must have been a trick to lower my guard; that was a low blow, even for a redhead._ "Sithis, I know you have my soul," she whispers, "but I will kill myself if you don't help me." We both wait in silence for a moment, presumably for Sithis to reply, but nothing happens. It's a shame. _I would love to introduce myself to the Prince of Death._ Red Sparrow sighs again, and she sounds so hopelessly depressed that I want to throw some bread crumbs at her. As soon as it arrived, however, her sad mood dissipates in preference for anger. She wiggles her foot as though miming stamping it on the ground, and huffs at me. "Ugh!" she snaps. "I even had this whole threatening letter thing planned! I am going to _murder_ Nazir!"

"Don't take out your anger on braziers," I rebuke her, but it does not seem to help at all since she does not apologize. It is not very often that people interrupt me, so I am a bit put-out anyway. Plus, she did just say she wanted to kill me and murder my brazier, so I guess I'll have to return the favor. I thought she was an assassin, not a murderer, but buggers can't be chuggers.

I'll leave her brazier intact, though. I'm not a savage.

The woman leaps to the ground, apparently not too attached to her beam, and dashes towards me. Two daggers are suddenly in her hands—one in each hand, not two in each, and she only has two hands—before I have time to draw my mace. I should not have sheathed it in the first place _. Sadistic pigeons in red webs of sharks screaming coos are not to be trifled with._

I swing my mace with my newly-intact left hand, but the fat pigeon sadist dodges like the skinny pigeon sadist she is. I am a bit surprised _. Usually the fight's over by now._ When I wonder what I ought to do next, the sadistic sparrow pigeon woman with the knives strikes, opening me up along the side of my waist. I squeak at the sudden influx of sensation and then swing again before the sparrowed spider sharkener has time to raise her guard.

This time, she's the one who squeaks in pain as my mace hits her directly in the throat, thoroughly halting any other squeaks of pain as her windpipe is crushed under my awesome strength. I'm not a fan of killing nesting sparrows, even sadistic ones, but her feathers might make a nice pair of gloves.

And then, I see red.

Blood.

Everywhere.

There's blood on the ground, pooling at my feet, dripping down my side. There's blood under the woman who never introduced herself, more spurting from her torn throat in a seemingly endless stream. My head spins and my stomach roils. _I need to treat my wound._ I need to treat my wound, but that means performing surgery without looking at it in the darkness, and I think I've already demonstrated that I'm no good at that.

Stupid, stupid sparrow with her pecky little daggers and screechy little coos. She is ruined my pants. It's not my fault that I don't wear armor; how else will I run around Skyrim looking sexy? _All I want is to look sexy, bash some skulls, assassinate a kindly orphan, and eat good soup. Is that too much to ask?_ Apparently it is, because this blood loss isn't the most encouraging of signs. My head is spinning not because of the blood, but because of my lack of it. And also because of the blood. I can't look at the blood, else I might have been able to scoop it up and put it back where it belongs.

I need to treat this somehow so that I don't actually die. I'm not supposed to die. My father told me _specifically_ not to die. I'm still not wearing armor, though. _Armor is for spineless cucks like this throatless corpse._

I hear some keening that's not my own coming from the other side of the room. There seems to be three people all bondaged up and blindfolded, but not gagged. _Ah, the masochists._ I had forgotten about the masochists, but what purpose is a sadist without her baby masochists? _Maybe she feeds them by throwing up in their mouths._

Those blinding cloth sacks will do swimmingly as binding cloth sacks to halt the blood, but there is the little issue that they're atop the faces of some blinded baby masochist chicks. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose, so I press my lips shut to hold back any waves of nausea and then approach the three.

"I don't know anyone who would want me dead!" the first one gibbers like a gibbering gibberer. "Sure, I violently murdered a few—"

I cave in his chest with my mace.

"Release me, knave!" the second shouts. "I'm a strong independent woman and people are jealous of my—"

I cave in her chest with my mace.

"If you free me," the third purrs because he is a Khajiit, "I promise not to defile your dau—"

I cave in his chest with my mace.

Now that all the masochists have been satisfied with a strong level of pain that eventually results in death, I can loot their corpses for their little cloth helmets. I suppose I only needed one, but then it would have been unfair for the killed corpse. This way, they're all dead and the balance of the universe is intact.

My balance wavers as I feel the warm, sticky life juice that vampires crave running down my skin, so I grimace and press one of the cloths to my side. It is easier to staunch the flow of blood with two hands against the wound, and so I sheathe my mace to give my first hand a helping one. Now I have to bash open the door and walk however many miles to the nearest road and then walk however many miles to the nearest town...

 _Oh, dear, I don't feel so good._


	9. Rainbows in Dire Paits-ients

_subtitle: the torment of cynric_

 _sub-subtitle: **maximsk** is the bbbbeta like a badass_

 _sub-sub-subtitle: so many demons_

 _sub-sub-sub-subtitle: this is a longass chapter_

 _sub-sub-sub-sub-subtitle: enjoy!_

* * *

9\. Rainbows in Dire Paits-ients

* * *

When Cynric woke up, it was evening. And Liar was gone.

Again.

One time was understandable. It was Liar. She did this kind of thing. She was flaky, unpredictable. Fine. But a second time? In a matter of hours? By the gods, this was ridiculous.

He calmed himself by remembering that she could be just down the hall, eating some kind of disgusting vegetable supper and sickeningly sweetened alcohol. How she managed to force that shit down her throat was a mystery to Cynric, as even the smell of either made him a bit queasy. He hurried down the hall and into the common area of the inn, glancing around for Liar anywhere, but she was not to be found. _That damned girl._ Sure, she could take care of herself somewhat, but the last time she disappeared she came back with an assassination contract courtesy of a child.

Thankfully, Liar stood out like a sore thumb wherever she went. If she left the inn, someone would have noticed. Thus, Cynric's first stop was to Elda Early-Dawn, a relatively kind but hardened woman who ran the place. Cynric was quite certain that Elda had overcharged the two of them because of the color of Liar's skin, as the woman was a known hater of Dunmer. The benefit of that, however, would be that Elda would remember Liar well.

Unfortunately, Elda was very adamant that she had not seen Liar, even when Cynric offered her a bribe. She had only been deeply offended by the suggestion and did not change the story. Just in case, Cynric wandered about the inn and asked a few of the other patrons, but none had seen Liar. This was unusual. Liar did not move through places unnoticed. No, a gaggle of catcallers and shocked priests eyed her wherever she went, and, gods forbid she actually spoke to someone. That person would remember their encounter with the distracted half-Dunmer-half-Breton exotic whore with a large, terrifying mace and unkempt hair. Liar was impossible to miss. Thus, either everyone here was a liar— _oh gods, he was starting to think like Liar_ —or Liar had disappeared without anyone seeing her. And Liar, as she had mentioned many a time, was not a sneak thief.

With the distinctive lack of information, Cynric had no idea where to start searching. He tried speaking to the gate guard who was still recruiting jovially for the damned Stormcloaks: Liar had not passed through. He asked guards and various townsfolk, but most only gave him strange looks and told him to lay off the booze. The kind ones simply gave the same reply: Liar had not passed through.

He was just about to give up hope when he heard a sentence that he did not expect he would ever hear from anyone except Liar.

"Hello! The birdies say you're foraging!" a cheerful, scratchy voice called out from nearby.

Cynric looked around, but there was no one.

"Funny thing is, I'm looking for the same person," the disembodied voice continued. "Well, actually I know where the bag of fun bags is but I'm not allowed to look for her, so I'll let you do the legwork for me. The number of legs is quite disparate, though, eh? Oh, I'm clever, aren't I. And don't bother blubbering an answer, you daft raisin cake!"

Again, Cynric turned his gaze about, but to no avail. He dearly hoped Liar's crazy was not contagious, because he didn't need hallucinations now.

"Ahem." The voice cleared its throat. "A- _hem_." When Cynric didn't reply, still searching for its source, there was a large sigh. "Down here, you idiot human."

Cynric glanced down. There was a sudden popping noise, and a little blast of flower petals rose and smacked Cynric straight in the face, obscuring his vision. While he blinked the vegetation out of his eyes and spat various colorful petals out of his mouth, the voice continued, clearly disgruntled.

"You humans just up and assume everyone else is human—I used to be juust like you, ya know," the voice rambled, "assuming everyone was human, riding spiky sea creatures and murdering just about everything there is to murder stylishly, and then I got converted to the land of convertitude, and so… Here! I! _Aaaaamm_! Tada!"

Cynric finally coughed out the last flower petal and stared at the ground with watering eyes. A pair of round yellow eyes with slitted pupils stared right back. The eyes were attached to a small head which was attached to a small body which held four small legs and a flicking tail. It was a cat. A kitten, to be specific, and an unlucky black one at that.

"Brilliant, eh?" the kitten said in that terrifyingly masculine voice.

Cynric stared. This had to be a dream. This wasn't _real_. It couldn't be real.

"I'm handsome as myself, aren't I?" the kitten said smugly. It sat down in the snow and wrapped its tail daintily around its paws. "I do want thumbs, though. Thumbs are underrated, after all, even if they don't have those adorable mortal organs." It sighed longingly, and then its eyes narrowed at Cynric's silence. He swore the kitten huffed in frustration. "What's your problem, you maggot-ridden sack of entrailed fleas?" the kitten hissed. "Do they write blessings about you? Hm? _Hmmmm_? I think _not_." It harrumphed and tossed its nose into the air haughtily.

"You... are a cat," Cynric choked out.

"And you are an imbecile," the kitten retorted imperiously. It sighed. "Oh, I knew I should've come as a pebble or a siege tower, but those would have been too noticeable. My own ingenuity is my undoing, but I shall solve that with a party later." The kitten glared at Cynric. "You like parties, don't you?"

Cynric barely managed to nod.

"Aye, then let's get this one started," the kitten said. It hopped to its tiny feet and struggled to navigate through the snow. It was so deep that only the kitten's ears could be seen as it bounced through the powder. "Damn me to the Void," the kitten muttered, and then Cynric heard the telltale sound of a hairball being hacked up. "Ugh. Of all the times… If this isn't magical, I will eat it like a plastered pastry dunked in lemon juice." The kitten huffed and then meowed an actual meow that one might expect from a kitten. Instantly, the kitten lifted off into the air and hovered above the snow. Its yellow eyes looked at Cynric expectantly. "Off with you!" the cat shouted, and then started cackling.

Cynric followed dumbly as the kitten floated through the streets of Windhelm. Its legs moved as if it were walking on an invisible path, and it even jumped onto invisible platforms and moved around invisible obstacles. Cynric did not know what to do.

Eventually, he realized that no one was commenting on the flying kitten. A quick glance around confirmed that no one seemed to notice it. People perceived Cynric normally, but their eyes passed unseeingly across the levitating feline. At that point, Cynric was nearly certain this was a dream.

When Cynric and the kitten got to the gates of Windhelm, the kitten mewled again, and the gates snapped open faster than a bear trap closed. The gate guard was smashed full in the face and collapsed, his skull having been utterly obliterated by the force of the swing. A splatter of blood mixed with some bone powder was all that remained of the man's head. As Cynric stared, dazed, screams echoed from nearby. The man was really dead. The floating kitten had killed a man by opening a door.

Gods, that meant there really was a floating kitten.

"Hurry up, you flabby sack of fudge!" the kitten shouted impatiently. It was staring at him, still about a foot above the snow, and its tail was twitching. "Time is of the imperitence! Off we go! There are liars and thieves that need rescuing from their own sense of self!"

Cynric immediately perked up at that. _Liars and thieves?_ He had to be talking about Liar, didn't he? Oh, it made some sick sort of sense that a floating telekinetic kitten would lead him to Liar. What in Talos' name had he gotten himself into?

When the clattering of mail heralded the arrival of city guards, Cynric dashed forwards. The kitten made a happy purring noise and treaded air with Cynric following close behind. After a few silent minutes, Cynric and the kitten made it to Windhelm's stables. The stablemaster ran forwards and effused about how hardy and strong his horses were, the best in Skyrim, but a meow from the kitten shut him up.

More specifically, the stablemaster turned into a wooden bowl.

Cynric gaped as the previous stablemaster tumbled unceremoniously into the snow, and the kitten laughed maniacally. "Oh, I wish he had a face so I could see it right now!" it screeched. It turned to wink at Cynric, a terrifyingly humanoid action. "I should visit more often, eh? Ah, what fun, what fun." The kitten floated to the horses and eyed them critically, but Cynric did not move. "Oi, time is essence if that wasn't clear," the kitten growled. "Onwards and upwards, little kitten. You're an inessential mortal, after all"

"You killed a man and turned another into a bowl," Cynric pointed out. He felt those were two justifiable reasons to not follow the kitten anymore.

"Eh, they'll be happier now as an immortal dead thing," the kitten said dismissively. "Now get a horse and follow the kitten's meows, got it?"

"What?" Cynric asked.

"Close, but no sugar," the kitten stated, and then disappeared. A loud yelp and a puff of snow was evidence enough that the kitten had not in fact disappeared but had fallen into the snow. A series of pitiful mewls started up.

Cynric approached the little crater in the snow, and was greeted by two yellow, accusing eyes. The kitten yowled and tried to hop out of the snow hole, but to no avail. Cautiously, Cynric reached down and grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck. Its meowing turned into loud purrs as Cynric held it up, and it scrabbled its paws until Cynric placed the little ball of black fuzz on his shoulder.

"What the fuck is happening?" he breathed. The kitten did not reply, only nuzzling its soft head against Cynric's throat. Its nose was freezing cold, and its little body was shivering and damp with snow. It seemed as though the kitten were no longer... possessed... by whomever, or whatever, had been speaking out of it.

That whoever, though, seemed to think that Liar was in trouble and that this kitten would help Cynric find her. This whole situation screamed trap or farce or even still a dream, so Cynric hesitated. He did not want to fall into some evil spirit's plot. He took a deep breath, patted the kitten on the head, and turned to head back to Windhelm. He would find Liar on his own.

The cat began meowing loudly right into Cynric's ear, and he scrunched his face but did not stop. After a few steps, however, the toe of Cynric's boot smacked against something solid which he accidentally kicked a dozen feet through the air as the cat continued to keen. He slogged over to where it had landed to find a wooden bowl. _The_ wooden bowl. The stablemaster who was now a wooden bowl. With trembling hands and a screaming kitten in his ear, Cynric slowly bent down—the kitten's claws dug into his shoulder so as not to fall off—and gently lifted the bowl out of the snow. He tapped it with his knuckles, but it was solid wood. He studied it from all angles, but there were no distinguishing features, no hints that it was ever a human being. It was nothing but a wooden bowl. He could probably get five coppers for it if he wanted. Five coppers was now how much a human life was worth.

The kitten was no longer meowing.

Cynric's fingers shook so hard that the bowl slid from his grip and fell into the snow. It remained there, inanimate, and he stumbled back. Whatever had been possessing that kitten was strong enough to destroy people with a single meow, mercilessly and apathetically. Cynric was already involved; there was nothing he could do about that. If he ignored the demon-kitten's orders, however, he could be the next wooden bowl. And if this thing had Liar, then he had to do what it said. If he was walking into a trap, at least he would be prepared. Prepared to fight a demon-kitten.

Cynric forced himself to stop thinking about the terrifying implications of a spirit that could possess kittens, causing them to float and devastate with a single meow. _Talos, what is going on?_ Cynric turned towards the stables again.

The kitten on Cynric's shoulder suddenly stiffened, and then dashed down Cynric's arm. He lifted it so that the kitten did not slip off, and it perched right at the edge of his sleeve. It was staring, wide-eyed, at a horse a few paces in front of Cynric. The kitten meowed loudly. Once, and then twice, and then three times and so on, until the sound was so grating that Cynric scrambled to tack the horse and mount it. Immediately, the kitten started purring.

Cynric was not a horseman. He had always preferred to walk on his own two feet than rely on an animal to carry him. Horses were notoriously easy to scare, to hobble, and to trip. Nordic horses, at least, were sure-footed and heavy, built more for uneven terrain than for speed. That was fine with Cynric, as he would be too terrified to ride a galloping horse anyway.

True to the evil spirit's word, Cynric followed the kitten's meows. Every time Cynric came to a crossroad or needed to head into the undergrowth, the kitten would scamper on top of the horse's head, right between its twitching hears, and caterwaul until Cynric turned according to its wide-eyed gaze. Not only was the constant wailing deadly to the ears, Cynric grew so tired that he began slipping off the horse, and the horse was not faring much better. The animal, at least, had the advantage of being used to trekking long distances with a rider on its back, but Cynric had not ridden in years. In a matter of hours, his legs were chafed and his muscles so sore that they were stiffened and numb. Every time he tried to stop or get off the horse, however, the kitten began yowling even louder without cease. Cynric's only option at that point was to smother the blasted thing, but not even he was that cold-hearted.

The kitten force-marched Cynric and his horse for the remainder of the day and most of the night. They had been moving steadily northwest, cutting through undergrowth and foliage instead of following the meandering roads. It was probably a faster trek to their destination, but it made the journey all the more painful for both Cynric and the horse. Out of pure boredom and pain, Cynric spent his time betting who would die first: the horse of exhaustion, Cynric of agony, and the kitten of suffocation because it just _could not shut up_.

And then, the kitten let out a loud yawn, showing off its small, needle-like teeth, and made to curl up between the horse's ears. Either the kitten had finally suffocated, or they had arrived.

Cynric was about to dismount and cuddle the kitten in joy when a clawed hand made of thick, black shadow burst from the ground, grabbed the kitten roughly, and dragged it into the earth. The kitten screeched, a sound of pure fear, but its voice was cut off the moment it was swallowed by the darkness. The horse whinnied in terror and reared. Cynric tried valiantly to hold on, but he would not have succeeded even if his legs were working. He promptly fell to the ground, feeling as though every bone in his body shattered the moment he hit the dirt. The horse bolted.

Cynric was left with no horse, no kitten, and a body so sore that he could not get up.

"Candy, candy—he makes so much, using the Grandfather's magic touch," a familiar voice wheezed. The sound of crunching leaves approached, its progress interrupted by the continuation of the song. "So it's back to the workshop in the snow," Liar huffed raggedly. "Oh, I think I met snow someday. Friendship!" Cynric tried to sit up, but his screaming muscles refused to comply. "He he! Ha ho!" she yelled jubilantly. "He he he ha ha ho! Something about lanterns… Glow! To the workshop we will go!" Liar gasped for breath, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of someone toppling full force into a bush. "You interrupted me, you bastarded turd!" she screeched. "If I were a dragon, you would be a burning bush possessed by the gods! Eat an icicle!"

"Liar?" Cynric called, remembering that he could still speak even if he could not move. "Liar, is that you?"

"Cynric is voiceful, but he isn't the gods," Liar said reproachfully. "Scare-esy and sack-religion! Bego the bush an—oh, that makes sense," she suddenly interrupted herself. "I'm the Cyn-ic."

Cynric cursed under his breath. _This might be impossible._ "Liar, it's Cynric. I'm past the bush. Follow the sound of my voice."

"You do have a nice v—" She was interrupted by a loud retching noise, and Cynric winced as he heard her puking. "And they say only spriggans spit sap," she muttered after a minute of retching and spitting. "They don't count as meat," she muttered hoarsely. "I'll eat a spriggan. With honey. And mead. A mediocre spriggan to call Honey. We'd be in love, and my finger would have its ring finger since I still have my finger."

"Goddammit, Liar!" Cynric shouted in frustration. "Get over here!"

"You're problematic," Liar replied. Her voice was distinctly weaker. "This bush isn't a spider web. Spider webs save lives, but not flives. Even a spider couldn't eat all five, but I suppose the leftovers are good for maggots and magpies. If they can get through the door. I think I left it open, which was quite rude of me, 'cause the sparrows might let the sharks out of the spider doesn't catch the flies. Those maggot-breath cannibal queens... Oh, the five flives are divine retribution for the thrive hives! That's fair, Lord Cynric, the me-cynic."

By the end of her harangue, Liar's voice had grown worryingly unsteady—more than usual. Cynric took a deep breath to brace himself, and then sat up in one quick motion. He could not hold back a hiss of pain as his entire body screamed at him, but he forced himself to remain upright. Now that he was strong enough to concentrate, he made to push some healing magic into his legs, but a cough made him pause. Liar was clearly wheezing and she wasn't talking about anything. A quiet Liar was a sleeping Liar or a dead Liar. Cynric would save his minimal Magicka just in case.

Cynric again gathered the willpower to move, this time to pull himself towards the bush that Liar had fallen into. Maybe the possessed cat was right, and Liar really was in danger. Maybe it had not been a trap at all, but some sort of spirit who cared for Liar's safety. It had been a kitten, after all, and kittens did not seem to be the most obvious choice of form for an evil spirit. Sure, it had killed a few people, but so had Cynric and so had Liar. Cynric gritted his teeth against the pain and stood up on wobbly legs rubbed raw from the prolonged horseriding. He felt blisters pop and barely-formed scabs crack. But he could endure if it meant saving his friend's life.

Gods, she was his best friend, one of his only friends at this point, even if he barely knew her. That was ridiculous; he barely knew her! But there was just something about her that drew him in... and it was not because of how attractive she was—or, at least not completely that.

She had no feelings of disdain towards anybody, not even Mercer, whom everyone hated right now. She did not feel the need to belittle people to feel better about herself, like Vex did; she was not a pushover for the sake of peace, like Brynjolf was; and she was not constantly dissatisfied with her life, like Cynric was. She was beautiful but not haughty, witty without knowing it, and kinder than she seemed. She had an odd sort of innocence about the world, and yet she was cold enough to kill on little more than a whim.

The dichotomy within this gorgeous, oblivious, strong, clever woman was so enticing that Cynric felt himself realize just then that this line of thought might lead somewhere that he did not want to ponder.

The need to run away from his thoughts gave Cynric a last burst of energy to push through the nearby undergrowth to gaze upon the mortal wounds of his... his... his Liar.

The first thing Cynric noticed was the blood. His own ran cold as he stared at the splatters of crimson covering both the prone woman and the greenery all around her. Any pain disappeared from Cynric's mind as he fell to his knees beside her. He was shivering, shocked and terrified, because she was dead. Liar was dead. Her skin was corpse-gray, her body unnaturally still, and he saw no breath rise in her chest. If he had just been one minute faster or spent less time sprawled uselessly on the ground, he could have healed her. It was his fault. It was his fault that his beloved, batshit Liar was dead.

Oh, gods, this was a shitty time to realize he loved her.

Cynric felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but he forced them back. He would not cry. He did not deserve to cry. He was a murderer. A real murderer, not a sellsword or an aimless killer. No, he murdered someone important to him. After this, how would he live? How would he continue on? Would he go back to the Guild and live a life without color? Would he return to High Rock and take risky jobs until something killed him? Would he wander Tamriel, a vagabond sworn to—

A soft snore broke Cynric out of his thoughts.

Hesitantly, Cynric pressed one shaking hand against Liar's pale gray throat. Once his fingers stopped trembling enough to discern a proper pulse, he found one strong and steady. Baffled, he drew his hand back and stared at the living corpse before him.

She was alive.

But her skin was gray like a cor—right, that was just her natural skin tone.

But she wasn't moving at—yes, because she was tangled in a large bush that was trapping her arms and legs.

But she wasn't breath—Cynric saw her chest rise slowly, and then fall. Then rise. Then fall. And so it continued.

But the blood!

The blood was still not explained. No one could lose that much blood and be no worse for wear. Not even Liar. Cynric felt the fear return full force as he searched for the wound that caused so much horror around him. He tried to keep his mind purely clinical as he ran his hands across her body, but he couldn't help noticing how well-defined her muscles were without taking away from her curves.

Without fondling Liar more intimately than he was comfortable with, Cynric finished his inspection. He had found no wound. Liar was not wounded. She was fine. She was just sleeping.

And that was when the adrenaline wore off.

Cynric's muscles seized up and dropped him flat onto the ground beside Liar. Thankfully, he did not fall into any blood, but there was a sharp rock digging into his back. He could not move off of it, so he eventually just surrendered to the utter exhaustion.

This had been the most confusing day of Cynric's life.

And then, he heard it, the sound that made this day even more eventful:

 _"Do… Vah… Kiin…!"_

xXxXxXx

"Give the mother to the blue land, the brother to the red, the sister to the gray sand, the father to the bed," I mumble as I wake up. "Bugs."

 _Oh, I feel like shit._ Shit feelings require lullabies to repair. Da always said so, at least, and he had a good voice. I have a good enough voice that I can be proud of, but he had a better one. I am not offended that he is a better singer than me because he is family. Family is exempt from offense. Unless any of them were prettier than me, but they are not. Fenri is beautiful and amazing and wonderful, but I am the most beautiful and amazing and wonderful. In Mundus. Nirn. Ever. In all time. _Except for the_ dovahhe _._ Dovahhe _are the most gorgeous creatures in the world and I love them even more than snow._

"Blah, la, la, la, laaaaa, la, boom, bah, dumbah, boom," I continue with a loud yawn. "Red and gray and colored something with words and that's brown."

I fell asleep in a very uncomfortable position. Bushes are not the best sleeping place, although they are not the worst either. At least it's not interrupting me anymore.

"Then there's also dirt, but I think that was gray! Something about bread, and then you slice it up but,"—I yawn again and struggle against the bushy sticks—"bread doesn't bleed because it's crumbly and dead. Oh, I think that's completely right! It rhymed, after all!"

How I have managed to remember songs is a mystery to me, but I am an enigmatic beauty full of mystery and intrigue. _Enigmatic means all that, doesn't it? Except the beauty part, but that's a given._

"I hate doing cleaning, but soap is misunderstood like a dying baby butter bubble. Haha, fun!"

My struggling is bearing much bush fruit, but perseverance makes perfect, so I keep at it. My mace could help, but it's also stuck in the bush. _What a silly contraption, bushels of mace. It should never have been invented or legalized._

"Damn taxidermists on mountains!" I shout, waving my fist about like a herd of pigs trying to fly off a cliff. "But they don't have wings. I suppose they can eat some flighted penguins,"— _Oh, I vomited, didn't I._ Thankfully, it fell through the bush so I didn't fall asleep in it—"and then we'll all fight for pen-dants."

I feebly heave myself to my feet in a great feat of athleticism that would rival that freak of a spidarrow of time. _Thyme._ _With its little slashy shark tooth talons._ Ha, _she_ fell asleep in her own excrement and other more red and disgusting liquids. _What a silly, silly persona. Personage. Personal. Parsnips._ Those are good. I have not eaten those in a while, and I am hungry. _Honey parsnips of thyme._

"I'll never eat a pig, though," I add absentmindedly, "or even a pen _guin_ … even if it does have a necklace."

Completely bushed and yet now unbushed, I stretch and struggle to seize my bushed mace.

"There should be three rejoicings but the animals are sad," I mumble. "Eat vegetables, the penguins yelled at the horkers and the porkers. The poachers!"

 _Lullabies are so odd, aren't they?_ Maybe parents just want to teach their children about death and trauma early so that they don't die traumatically by accident before they're all mature. Even adults aren't mature, though—the live ones, anyway. The dead ones are matured and ripe for the eating by anything that matters.

"Everybody's dancing and we all throw the berries which accidentally hit an innocent _dovah_. And then the _dovah_ came down and ate them all and then everybody died brilliantly!"

I finish the song with a happy cheer, feeling much better. _Lullabies sure do lift the soul and soothe the spirits._ Ha, imagine if I were drunk yesterday or whenever I was feeling like a drowning stick—a few minutes ago? _No, too soon._ That would have been a downer.

I hear a loud gasp, and I gasp in return. I add a cute little jump, though, while the other person just lifts his head. "Hi, Cynric," I say happily. "Good to see your lack of death."

"Likewise," he mutters. With a soft groan of pain, he drapes an arm over his eyes. "Ugh, I feel like shit."

"Likewise!" I laugh. "You really shouldn't drink on a weekday," I chastise him. "Of course you feel all ripe."

"Divines, just let me die," he grumbles.

"Okay," I say doubtfully, and he chuckles.

"I see how much you care," he retorts, but he has a small smile on his face.

"I'm a fan of letting people make their own decisions," I huff. I stretch again and feel my back crack satisfyingly. Satisfied, I heft my mace to lean it against my shoulder and glance down at myself.

I hiss in disappointment at the state of my dress. Not a literal dressy dress with the tangly fabrics and frilly laces, but rather as the opposite of undress _. I will not do that in front of Cynric, since I've figured out that most people grow very embarrassed if I strip in front of them._ Anyway, my little top is torn enough that it's raunchy even for raunchy Nords, but at least I can pull it off. Not literally pulling it off my body, but rather that I have the body to make anything look sexy. _Even potato priest robes, not that I would ever wear those lumpy spuds._ Anyway, my pants have fared better, although they're sticky with sticks and—I close my eyes tightly— _blood_ from my previous exposition of organs, but also some dirt. I always keep a little change of clothes in a pouch on my belt, so at least there's that. I need a wash, though, since my hair is also matted with sticks and dirt and leaves and maybe the tip of a finger, but I don't think that actually happened. _Weird dream, that._

"What happened to you?" Cynric mutters from the ground. He has not bothered struggling to stand like I did, but he is not in a bush either.

"Well," I begin doubtfully, "I was in bed and then I was here and a sparrow clawed me with her talons and I killed some potato masochists."

Cynric sighs. "Right. What about all the blood? Did someone… explode on you? That's a _lot_ of blood."

"The sparrow clawed me with her talons," I repeat impatiently. _People are not as good at listening as I am._

Cynric removes his arm from his face and pushes himself into a sitting position. He hisses through his teeth, so I suppose that is a bit painful for him. He's not the one who was butchered like a blubbery horker, though, so I don't know what he's being all dramatic about. _Little needle pricks, that's what. Ugh, what a prick._ That was a bit mean, even if I'm feeling prickly. Cynric's a good sort, if a little bit restrictive and hovery.

I wish I could fly, like a _dovah_. _I would flap my arms, but they don't really have separated arms, do they? They have their flappers with li'l claws at the end that work as hands, and they are handsome too._ Oh, it must be nice and cold up high in the sky, and I could fly straight through the clouds of snow. _What a delight that would be._ A _dovah_. I want to be a frost _dovah_ so that I can make my own snow whenever I want. Maybe a pretty rainbow-colored one. The _dovah_ , not the ice. _I want white snowy ice like a dress._

"I hate dresses," I mutter.

"You said the sparrow bit already," Cynric says impatiently. That's no fair. I'm the impatient one. _He's overlapping upon my character._ "Were you wounded?" he asks. "What _happened_ , in clearer words, please."

I frown. I was already clear, like water rather than snow, but I do not like being all drenched in water. _Maybe that's what Cynric means._ "I..." I close my eyes and try to think, but I do not think the fog wants to clear. Fog is not clear even though it makes you all watery like snow. Ice can be clear sometimes, though, so maybe if I frost the fog enough, it'll turn to ice.

Dovah _ascension, begin!_

"Liar, c'mon," Cynric pleads. "I dealt with a demon kitten and a long horse ride to find you because I thought you were in danger. Why were you so sick? How did you even _get_ here?"

So many questions, but at least there were kittens and horses involved. I already met the demon though. She begoned. Abscond. _Scones are just the greatest._ Oh, but this inquisition does not help clear my muddled mind, and mud is the least clear of all of these icy metaphors. Dirt and water should at least be translucent, though. _How does it work?_

"A... sparrow... spider... shark... sadistic... assassinator..." I sigh. "Stabbed me with her piercy claws... pincers... teeth... pointy pleasure sticks... little dagger knives..." I sigh again. "Uhm. Danger. Sure, I guess, but I had my pointy pleasure mace with teeth and spider string and some sparrow lettuce, so I crushed her sad little brain and knocked her piercy pincer teeth out, but she forced her little sticky knives through my skin and..." I scrunch my nose and refuse to look down at the stained ground. "So much _blood_ ," I finish. "Disgusting blood with a little bit of stabbing pain and then some more death."

"What?" Cynric gasps. He sits up straighter with a little wince. "You were stabbed? Where?"

I tap the side of my ribs, and his eyes run across my skin. He is not ogling, which is slightly offensive, but I will survive.

"...There's no wound," he states helpfully, and I glance at my side before looking away in disgust at the blood.

"I found some potato robes and then I remembered I had magic, so I healed myself," I reply matter-of-factly.

"Are..." Cynric stares straight into my eyes with his jaw slack and his expression dumbfounded _. I have been found, though, so he can't be too dumb._ "You... I…" He takes a deep breath, clearly struggling with something. "You can…" He groans heavily. "What the _shit_?" he finally snaps. His eyes narrow and his jaw closes unlike his only partially-closed eyelids. "For... Talos' name, why didn't you _tell_ me? You could've healed yourself when you got hurt by the animals?"

I nod wisely and place my free, maceless hand upon my wonderfully unwounded hip. It is my right hip that is unwounded; I do not reach my right hand all the way across my stomach and clutch at my left hip on the other side. _Well, I suppose both sides are unwounded, but my right side was wounded at some point recently by a demonic tempting risk._ "I don't heal the wounds bestowed upon me by animals," I state. "I told you that you didn't have to heal me, remember?" I do not know if that's true, but I probably did because it was animals and healing which usually don't go together _. Most animals can't heal, after all, except those trolls. They're not really animals, though. They're trolls._ "You refused not to," I continue, "and so I just let you because the animals were dead and couldn't judge me into Oblivion's bosom."

"Then why were you so sick?" he yells. I do not appreciate the yelling.

"There were some pretty purple flowers outside The Abandoned Hut," I tell him, "and then my stomach wasn't a fan." I frown contemplatively. "I could be a purple _dovah_ ," I muse. "I'd make everyone sick with envy. Or I could be green, but _I'm_ not the envious one, so I could be blue instead?"

Cynric groans, this time in mind pain rather than body pain, and flops back onto the ground. He yelps as a rock that I noticed to be quite sharp stabs him right in the spine, and even I can wince sympathetically at that. _Rocks are not to be truffled with._ "Why... am I here," he whispers, probably to himself, but I can help him, I think.

" 'Cause I'm here," I answer, and he glares at me from atop the ground below my feet.

"Why are _you_ here?" he asks me, and this time I know I am the intended recipient of the askance.

"I'm not quite sure," I reply, "but I think someone killed grilled and the lady Brother assassin Ass-Red thought it—"

"Assassin?" Cynric sits up quickly, this time without a squeal of pain. "The Brotherhood? Do you mean _Astrid_?" he hisses, and I shrug.

"Probably."

"Sithis, you were grabbed by the Brotherhood?" he cries. Finally, he stands up and stumbles a little as his legs make scary creaking noises. He stretches, and everything cracks more painfully than satisfactfully. "Shit, this is bad," he mutters. "Where were you?"

I look around. "Well, I am here," I say doubtfully, "and I probably was here a moment ago. So... here, I suppose."

"No, with Astrid," he says impatiently, and I nod.

"I was with her," I confirm.

"But _where_?" he asks emphatically.

"The Abandoned Shack."

"Where _is_ that?" he snaps without the patience he has been showing me on most of our traveling together. I do not like the impatience. Most people are impatient and most people can't have a good time in life. They all resent me for being happy, which is pure envy in action. _The world is green, like the trees, but the foliage doesn't give two whits about being envious. Oh, the world is so wittily confusing._

I look around thoughtfully, and then close my eyes at what I see. "Follow the blood," I mumble, trying not to gag. "I probably did that."

"Right," Cynric says. He grabs my arm to lead me about, but his grip is uncomfortably tight _. I don't_ like _it._ I wear loose clothes and few clothes because I want to show off and be free of tight grips of everything and revel in the weather. I weather it, though, because Cynric is usually not so gripey.

He tugs me along impatiently— _again with the impatience!_ —and I assume he is following the trail of crimson mixed with dirt, not a clear combination at all. Not a pretty color either. _Oh, if I were a red_ dovah _, I wouldn't be able to see the blood on my scales! Red_ dovahhe _are the prettiest,_ I decide _. I will be a frosty red_ dovah _, like butchered snow but no one can see the butchery._ Eventually, Cynric stops and so so do I. He gags, and I mentally agree. There is lots of blood.

"Aedra above," he mutters, "that _stench_." He coughs as though he is about to spew his breakfast everywhere, but eventually gets ahold of himself. After a few moments, he drops my arm and I hear him step forwards.

I have already seen the inside of The Abandoned Shack, so I suppose I do not need to again. Now that Cynric mentioned it, though, it does smell rather rank, slightly like the sewers that lead to the Lagging Vagabond. _And Mercer, but that place smells worse because Shouty's there with his rank personality and his superior rank._ I dig out my strawberry-scented cloth and pretend I am smothering myself. _That would be a silly way to die, unless I were smothered under a dragon._ Being that close to such a brilliant creature would probably make me die in pure joy before I could even die out of lack of oxygen or broken organs.

"Ugh, this is Astrid alright," Cynric mutters. "Damn, I can't believe you managed to kill _Astrid_ with just a scratch."

"I was bleeding out," I remind him, "so a bit more than a scratch."

" _Still_ ," Cynric murmurs, "that's impressive."

There is a silence during which Cynric presumably does things that I do not see because I have my eyes closed, and I wait patiently. _I_ am patient, unlike Cynric. In fact, I was _the_ patient whenever I was the victim of attempted assassination. _What a silly word, that. Who can take assassination seriously when it's a nation of double donkeys? Stubbornass creatures, those._ You need to be a patient person to pet them without them trying to kick you to death, so Cynric will never get to pet one. It makes me a bit sad that he will never stroke an ass.

"Was this about that Grelod the Kind—oh, that's what you meant by the grilled thing..." I hear him gasp and his feet make a little spinny noise on the wooden floor so I think I can safely assume he is facing me now. Well, that's assuming he had not been facing me a moment ago. He could be looking away from me out of impatience. "You stole a Brotherhood contract?"

I shrug without speaking, deciding to test whether he can see me.

"But you didn't kill Grelod," Cynric supplies, and I nod. I think this means he can see me, or he could just be spouting off vaguely-related statements impatiently at the corpses or the floor or the wall—or the ceiling for all I know. Some ceilings seem to be inhabited. "So why did Astrid drag you out here?"

"She thought something, but it was a wrong thought, unlike mine, and then she swooped down and ate my organs like a demon."

"She made a mistake?" Cynric murmurs to something _. Maybe to the little sparrow corpse down below with a bashed in face. I probably broke her beak._ "Did the Night Mother not... hm."

I nod. "Hm _hm_."

"Alright," Cynric sighs. "This is a development, but... I don't think there's anything we can really do at the moment. If the Brotherhood tries to get revenge, I suppose you can just..."—He pauses and maybe does something—"...kill them..?"

I nod. "That could be a nice adventure."

"So... should we go to Riften?" he says after another pause during which he might have done something.

"Why would we do that?" I inquire, shocked. "The kind-ess has been killed without my kind intervention, so there's no reason to kill her with kindness _again_. Unless she's an immortal. I do love _dovahhe_."

"But what about—"

Suddenly, Cynric is interrupted by a loud whinny. Well, I assume Cynric has been interrupted, else he has been turned into a horse or just has a talent for mimicking horse calls. I immediately snap my eyes open and dash out from the threshold of The Abandoned Shack, barely remembering to pocket my strawberry pocket handkerchief, and studiously ignore all the gore about. Standing regally near the purple flowers of death that made me sick—but still look a bit yummy—is a large demon horse. I stare wide-eyed at a creature almost as beautiful as I, but I cannot be envious of such a magnificent animal.

 _It is... magnificent._

"What... is that?" I hear Cynric say behind me.

"A horsie," I breathe.

"No shit," Cynric snaps, still impatient. I frown. _I don't_ like _it_. "Why is it here and why's it so creepy-looking?"

I am about to retort that the hort is not creepy-looking; it is beautiful and should be addressed as such, but then I hear a voice in my head. It is not my voice, which is somewhat unusual, but I can handle errant mental voices.

 **My glorious name is Shadowmere,** the voice whispers in a deep, rich tone. **You have killed my previous master. She was annoying and fed me nary an apple. I am bound to you, my new master, who should give me apples until the day you die.**

"Are you speaking to me, horsie?" I ask the horsie, and it seems to nod. Cynric starts to ask something, but this time I interrupt him, not with a whinny but with a humanoid squeal. I dash forwards and hug the demon horse around the neck. "My name is Liar," I effuse as is only polite. "I love you almost as much as the red _dovah_ that I will find sometime and hug as well. Do you love me?"

The horse snorts in a way that I assume means "Yes! I love you so much! You're my favorite! I love you! All the way to the ends of the world! You're the best! So much love for you!"

"He said yes!" I gasp joyfully. "What a good boy you are!" The horsie stamps his adorable little—well quite big, actually—hoof and blows into my hair. He seems to agree that he _is_ a good boy.

"What... is that horse?" Cynric asks hoarsely.

"It's a demon horse named Shitty Mire," I promptly reply.

 **Shadowmere,** he mentally corrects me.

"Mere Shadows," I audibly correct myself.

 **Shadowmere.**

"Shady Mer."

 **Shadowmere.**

"Sham and More."

 **Shadowmere.**

"Shaming Mark."

 **For Sithis' sake, I am Shadowmere!**

I nod. "I love him," I tell both Cynric and Shadowmere.

 **That! That's it!**

"Shoving Beer," I repeat out loud.

 **Shadow—Oh, forget it.**

"I'm good at that," I reply.

"It's a demon horse?" Cynric says, quite nervous. I had forgotten about him, so I am already making Shadowmere proud, I hope. "I don't need more demons around."

"Of course he's a demon horse," I grumble. I run my fingers through Shadowmere's silky, ebony locks. "He's got red eyes and a beautiful black pelt just like a Dremora."

"Ah."

"And I love him," I repeat.

 **...D-don't be so sappy,** Shadowmere mumbles embarrassedly. **I am a terrifying force to be reckoned with. M-mortal fool.**

I hug him around his beautiful neck, and he chuffs. Without further ado, I heave myself onto the convenient saddle on his back and grab the convenient reins in front of me. I look down at Cynric, who seems quite queasy now. Maybe it's all the blood about.

"Are you coming?" I inquire.

"Please, just no more horses," he whispers back, and I cover Shadowmere's perky little ears after I gasp. I almost fall in the process since I do not have the stunning feats of athleticism like the shark died. Did. I manage to stay on, though, in a stunning feat of athleticism. No spikes are involved.

Now that Cynric has finished blaspheming my pony, I return both hands to the reins. "Jump onto the horse or be left onto the dust," I say matter-of-factly. Cynric blanches, but he does slowly move forwards. He still seems nervous, and Shadowmere stamps his feet as though skittish himself. I pat him on the neck very soothingly and coo in his ear. He snuffles and twitches his ears towards me in a happy bout of horsie love.

Eventually, Cynric gets to Shadowmere's side. Shadowmere glares at him with his pretty red eyes, and then huffs. Cynric flinches back, but I patiently hold out my hand that is closest to him. With his gaze still locked with Shadowmere's— _I'm betting that Shadowmere will win, and I bet I'll win this bet_ —Cynric places a trembling hand into my steady one. He looks up at me and I rejoice about winning one _and_ one bets and mentally hand myself my winnings. He allows me to pull him up behind me.

"Hold on," I caution him. "Demon horses are probably fast."

"Oh, well that's just fucking brilliant," he mutters in response, and I agree.

"Let's go, Shaving Mirror!" I shout heroically. "Off to somewhere!"

 **Specifics?**

I grin. "No!"

 **Hmph. I deserve many an apple for dealing with this.**

"Absolutely!" I retort, a little offended that Shadowmere would even doubt this. "And carrots and lettuce and hay and human flesh and anything else you could ever want!"

Shadowmere huffs with pleasure. **Indeed. This sounds acceptable to me.**

After finishing our mental conversation, Shadowmere lets out a handsome neigh and dashes forwards. Cynric shouts in some kind of negative emotion, like fear. Or maybe impatience, but that does not make sense because I was right.

Demon horses are _fast_.


	10. Bony Borns Bash Baby Bats to Bed And Br

_hell's bells, it's that day of the week again! which day? that's for you to decide! don't expect all the answers from me, dammit. back in my day i had to find all the answers on my own w/o all these handouts and has derailed okay. thx **maximsk** as per usual for baiting the waters and away we go_

* * *

10\. Bony Borns Bash Baby Bats to Bed. And Breakfast.

* * *

Solitoodles.

According to a poor, terrified Cynric, Solidmood is the headquarters for the Arboreal Region, which is the border patrol bumbling bees, while the Starvedcorks are the racist rabbits over in Whimsicelm. That does not make sense to me, though, because the Limpingeel Season were meanies trying to arrest me at the border, but the Storkcoach guard said I was nice and tried to save dogs that I almost killed— _Daedra forgive my transgressions because I can never forgive myself._ All these factions are quite confusing, but I remember that I remember them because my father made me remember them through repetitive remembrance exercises.

The only ones I have not yet met are the Saladmore, who are the stealthy sticklers who want everyone except themselves to go die. I can sympathize with that sentiment, but I will not go die just because someone other than myself told me to, so I think all the Talosmer should go die. They do not seem to be very receptive to constructive criticism, but maybe they will listen to me if I tell them to jump into a volcano _. Or Cynric. Cynric has a nice voice, after all._

While I am debating the ways to throw people into volcanoes with just the power of my voice, Shadowmere trots right up to the stables and snorts a little tendril of flame.

 **I have discovered a rest stop,** he says snottily. **You are obliged to present me with shiny, crisp apples posthaste.**

"Okay," I agree.

I drop gracefully off Shadowmere's back and Cynric just about falls as he tries to emulate me. He immediately sits down and begins rubbing his legs with a depressed expression on his face. I fish a couple of apples out of my pouch that had fallen on my head as Shadowmere was crashing through the undergrowth and hand them to him. Shadowmere nuzzles his soft, velvety lips against my hand and crunches on the first one.

"Why do you carry apples with you?" Cynric asks tiredly.

"Why wouldn't I?" I ask right back. "Apples have many a use."

"...Like what?"

"What if I need to capture some worms for the books?" I retort. When he does not reply, I huff in satisfaction. "Exactly."

 **Also, I require many an apple in payment, else I would be laboring as a slave,** Shadowmere adds.

"That's true," I agree as I offer him the second apple. Shadowmere gently munches on it. His mouth is soft and velvety like the rest of his fuzzy fur, and I pet him happily. "You're a good boy, Shoddy Near," I tell him.

 **Obviously,** he replies with an aloud snort. **I require another piece of produce. Immediately.**

I comply by pulling out some lettuce and carrots. He happily munches on those with his velvety mouth next, and then he seems satisfied. He swishes his tail back and forth and dances a little on his adorable hooves of swirling darkness.

"Where the hell do you _keep_ all that?" Cynric inquires, seeming a bit alarmed.

"In my pouches," I explain as though to a small, confused child. In case he is still confused, I gesture to my pouches. "These are my bags," I tell him in case he is _still_ confused.

"But… they're so small," he says.

"That's rather rude," I retort. "I have been told many a time that my bags are in fact rather large. And fun."

"That's…" He sighs heavily. "Fine."

"I am, aren't I," I preen. Happy again, I pat Shadowmere on the nose and then turn to the stablemaster who has been hovering nearby. The man looks quite frightened as he stares at Shadowmere. "I can't bring Shearing Matter in the city," I tell the stablemaster gravely, "so I will leave him in your… hopefully capable hands." I draw my mace and rest it against my shoulder to emphasize my point. The stablemaster gets it, if his paling pallor is of any indication.

"I'm ain't takin' no demon horse," the man sputters. "He's got glow-y eyes!"

"They are beautiful," I agree, "so take very good care of him. He likes regular vegetables and fruits and horsie grains and he sometimes eats the souls of animals and I think a human gutter rat once." I turn to Shadowmere, and he snorts in satisfaction. "He might puff some fire out of his cute little nose,"—I give Shadowmere a kiss on his cute little nose—"but it shouldn't be enough to do any serious damage. Just make sure he's not right next to any dried hay or tinder or a particularly flammable child."

Shadowmere snorts a little bit of flame, and I laugh at his coy little gestures. I toss a smile to the stablemaster and pull my mace off my shoulder so that its head is against the ground. The man jumps at the puff of dirt, and a lettuce leaf or two falls off. The mace, not the man. _I need to replace the yarn and lettuce, it seems._ _Since Shadowmere likes souls so much, I should find some soul gems and add them on there too._

"If Shattered Teal has any complaints when I get back, I will make you eat my mace," I inform him. He pales even more and nods furiously. "With your face," I clarify.

I look at Shadowmere sadly, and he gives me a little nicker, his big, soulful eyes watching me pleadingly. **I am desirous for more apples,** he begs, and I promise to bring him all the apples as soon as I am back. **Then I shall await your return with vigor,** is his grave reply. I touch his forehead to mine once, and then force myself to walk away without looking back more than about two dozen times.

During one of those times, I see Cynric give the stablemaster a pouch of gold and pat him sympathetically on the shoulder. I had just assumed that the honor of taking care of my demon horsie would be payment enough, but apparently these Solidtwo residents are greedy piglets. _Kind of like the Empirical Lesion._ After all, it's not fair that only the emperor gets to wear that pretty crown. I want that crown. _Greedy bastard. Probably why he got yelled to death by Oldfreak._

The courtyard beyond the city gates is packed with people, which is unexpected. I casually brush a few with my mace until they clear a path, and I assume Cynric is following behind. If not, then he will have to find his own mace to push through a crowd with. I am disappointed to find the hubbub is only an execution and so I continue into the city. Cynric follows, but I also noticing him eyeing the execution curiously. 'Execute' is a fighting word, but no one has said it yet. A hanging may be a form of execution, but 'hanging' is not a fighting word so I do not bother fighting anyone.

As I trot through nicely tended cobblestone walls, I find myself catching strange words that manage to hold my short interest-span. 'Dragon' is one I hear a few times, and then 'born' as well. I have not heard anything about a _dovah_ baby shower, never mind a birth, and I'm horrified that I seemed to have missed the event. I spin to face Cynric when I hear those words for the third time in a row.

"When did a _dovah_ get born?" I whisper passionately. If I am too loud, people might hear and look down on me for my shameful ignorance.

Cynric frowns in confusion, and then his face clears. "Oh," he says. "Not a dragon—the Dragon _born_. They're a person with dragon blood who can kill dragons."

I laugh scornfully. "No one can kill the immortal _dovahhe_ ," I inform him confidently. "Even Alduin the World-Eater could only be banished."

Cynric shakes his head. "No, the Dragonborn can actually _fully_ kill dragons," he states. I stare at him, shocked and beginning to doubt myself. "He can absorb their souls and… do something with them. Get power, or such."

"There's someone…" I blink my eyes and shake my head, trying to dislodge what must be a dream, a misunderstanding, a hallucination, a jest, a jape, a jamboree, a jubilee of juvenile jesters, but Cynric's expression does not once change. Cynric is not much for lying or joking. He is serious. By Sheogorath, he is _serious_.

"There's someone _killing_ _dovahhe_?" I screech so loudly that a few people turn their heads to stare or glare at me, I don't care which.

I don't care about anything other than this. This… this… _abomination_. This _murderer_ of the sweetest, kindest, most innocent and beautiful and free and beautiful and flying creatures in the entirety of existence.

Cynric takes a step back, and I realize that I have my mace held aloft in both hands as though I am preparing to smash his head in. I force myself to remove my right arm so that I have my mace held aloft in one hand as though I am preparing to smash his head in a little less violently.

"Er, yes," Cynric stammers. "Uh, the Greybeards Shouted… uh… _doh… vuh…_ _king_ … or something… yesterday while you were asleep."

" _Dovahkiin_?" I ask in terror, and Cynric nods. I press my mace into the ground and lean against the hilt, my mind spinning but strangely focused. "I thought the _dovahkiin_ was only a myth," I murmur. "I couldn't believe something so terrible could exist that would…" I shudder. "Oh, there's someone out there killing the _dovahhe_ and they have the _gall_ to have _dovah_ in their title?" I snort and shake my head. "No," I state. "This cannot stand. I will push it over."

"Wait…" Cynric looks around nervously and then steps closer. "This isn't a bad thing," he says. I snap my head towards him furiously, and he backs right back up. "I-I mean, they're saying the World-Eater is back," he continues shakily. "Alduin."

I gasp happily and stand up straight. "Alduin?" I cry. "Alduin, the lord of the _Dov_ has returned?" I grab my mace as I bounce up and down. "Oh, I want to meet him! I've wanted to eat worlds just like him since I was little!"

"If he eats the world, we'll die," Cynric reasons.

"No, I'll be a _dovah_ by then," I inform him confidently. "Then I'll find my scarlet bloodless _dovah_ and we'll have little baby Alduins who will eat the other worlds." Cynric gapes at me, apparently unable to reply to my ingenious plot. "If the _dovahkiin_ is here, though," I continue savagely, "then everything is ruined. He has the potential to ruin _everything_." I point my mace at Cynric suddenly, and he jumps away with a yelp as I nearly graze his chin. "Tell me everything there is to know about this bastard," I snarl.

Someone yells nearby, loudly enough that I turn to look. "By Talos—"

"Friend, we are in the Solitude city, yes?" a cloaked person next to them hisses loudly.

"Er… by Akatosh!" the first one corrects himself. "It's the Dragonborn!"

I waste no time in shouldering my mace and dashing towards the cloaked figure and the burly Nord gaping at a man rifling through a journal of sorts. When the Nord said 'Dragonborn,' the man looked up and blinked red eyes.

A Dunmer.

 _A wonderful Dunmer is the damned_ dovahkiin _? Ohh, the gods have a sense of humor._

When he catches the Nord's eye, the Dunmer snaps his journal shut and stands up tall. He crosses his arms and sniffs delicately. " 'Tis I," he says like the little snot he probably just sucked up his naval cavity. "I have come to save all of you lesser beings even though I am a superior—"

"Die, scum!" I yell as I run at him, mace held threateningly. He shrieks and spins around before running away much faster than I anticipated. Three different pairs of hands grab at my delicate arms and drag me to a stop as the bastard flees like a bastardly dastard. "Let me go!" I scream. "I will bisembowel and dehead that sock cucker and he will die by death by my hand! Mace! My left hand which holds the mace!" _I should find a way to sew my mace to my hand so that I don't have to draw it all the time._

"Liar, stop!" Cynric yells, and I feel one of the pairs of hands tighten.

 _I will kill Cynric too if he keeps me from my killing spree._ I struggle, but the other two pairs tighten as well. _I will kill all the hands in the entire uneaten world if it means I get to kill that poor excuse of a proud Dunmer._

"This one recommends you listen to your friend," the voice of the cloaked figure purrs. The sound is soothing, like a little kitten nuzzling up against me, so I immediately relax. I feel Cynric's grip slacken, and then his voice pipes up.

"Wait, you're a Khajiit!" he says.

I look back to see the cloaked person nervously tug at his hood with suspiciously-gloved hands. "Th-this one—er _I_ am n-no… no thieving cat," he says in a heavily accented voice. "Those, ehm, those sneaky feline... beast… carpets... are not to be welcomed within the— _our_ —cities," he finishes clumsily.

The Nord laughs and claps his cloaked friend on the back. "Of course you're not a Khajiit," he says jovially. "If you were, I'd have to arrest you!"

"This one is aware of such a thing," the not-Khajiit says anxiously.

Cynric stares at the hooded figure suspiciously for a few moments, and I can see a pair of very catlike eyes staring back from the slit in the not-Khajiit's mask. I have no choice but to believe him.

"I'm Liar," I say to both as is only polite. I do not remember how we all met, but the two not-Khajiit seem kind.

"Hadvar," the burly Nord says with a friendly smile. He holds out a calloused hand and I hold out mine as well. We both stand there with our hands out for a moment, and then he reaches forwards and clasps my hand in a hearty shake. I shake back. After a moment of stillness, he gently extracts his hand from mine.

"I am called Ma'dran," the not-Khajiit says. "It is pleasing to meet you."

"Cynric," Cynric says.

Hadvar smiles at me. "Will you put that mace of yours away?" he asks. "I have to arrest you now for having the potential to commit crimes against Skyrim and her people."

"Oh," I say and do as he requests. "Alright. What'd I do?"

"Ah, you just tried to kill someone," Hadvar says dismissively. "It'll be a small fine, probably, but I should drag you to Jarl Elisif just in case."

"Alright," I agree. Hadvar gestures towards a ramped road of rampant cobblestone nearby, and I trot after him.

"Whoa, wait!" Cynric calls as he hurries to my side. "Liar, you're getting arrested!"

"Yes," I acknowledge patiently.

Cynric seems to have a habit of pointing out things that are clearer than the day and much clearer than my mind. The day is actually quite cloudy and depressing, though, so I suppose it wouldn't be too difficult to be clearer than a day like this _. Or maybe that's the point. I don't remember. My mind isn't very clearing. There's no grass around either._

"But… why?" Cynric asks.

"Hadvar seems nice," I reply and Hadvar blushes a little. "And if I almost killed someone, I almost committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. I'm no murderer, not like that _dovahkiin_ fellow."

No one has a reply to that, just like I thought. If the so-called _dovahkiin_ were here, I'd bash his silly little face in for what he's done. _I should look for him. If only I knew what he looks like. Or she,_ I remind myself. _For all I know,_ I'm _the_ dovahkiin _._ That would be horrible because I don't want to kill _dovahhe_ , but it might be a good thing because it would mean that no one else could kill _dovahhe_. _I should climb the mountains and mountains of steps to speak to the scholarly fellows all the way on top of that tall grey beard and ask if I'm the_ dovahkiin _so we can scream together._

"So, how's your day been?" Hadvar asks me shyly. I smile at him, happy to be asked about the day since it is, after all, day. _The_ day, in fact.

"It's been cloudy," I inform him, and he nods. "Also, my demon horse ran me and Cynric here and his name is Shiny Beer—the demon horse, not the Cynric."

"That's a good name," Hadvar comments. "A strong, proper Nord name."

"Oh, I also got arrested!" I gasp, and Hadvar looks at me sympathetically.

"That's a shame to hear," he says sincerely. "Where'd you get arrested? It was probably one of those Stormcloak holds, the sick bastards."

I nod, probably agreeing. "It was in… um… Solaltitude," I remember.

"Hm," Hadvar muses. "I'm afraid I've never heard of that. It must be so far into Stormcloak territory that I've never been."

"It must be," I agree. "I know it's somewhere around here that's here," I inform him. "Where are we?"

Hadvar looks around. "Well, we're on our way to the Blue Palace right now, so I suppose we're just in the market. On the street."

"That makes sense," I say.

We walk in a pleasant silence for a few moments as I look around. Sordidmoot is much like a city, what with its cobbled stones and stony scaffolds. There are people about too, but no one stands out as much as the hooded not-Khajiit. He seems to be trailing along with us, staying in the shade of the various storefronts while keeping his catlike eyes fixed on us. I smile and wave at him, and he quickly glances away.

I sigh, a bit bored. We have been walking for seconds, and I have done all there is to do. _I wish there were a_ dovah _here that I could have an intelligent conversation with, but I think there is a_ dovahkiin _around here somewhere, so maybe I could go have an unintelligible conversation with him or her or it as I bash his or her or its head in._ I feel a little bit of saliva pooling in my mouth at the thought, and I stare dreamily into the distance. So dreamily, in fact, that I am quite surprised when I knock right into someone and send him or her or it sprawling to the ground.

"I'm sorry I'm Liar," I say as is only polite while holding a hand out in front of me. There is no one in front of me to take the hand, though, so I do not know whom I bumped into.

"You dare defile my superior bloodline with the earthy scum of the ground!" I hear a familiar voice shriek, and a form scrabbles to its feet at my feet. He curses when his head smacks into my outstretched hand, and I pull it back. _I should have held my hand downwards, I suppose._

I stare at the owner of the voice, surprised to find that it is a Dunmer. I am not sure where I've met this man before, but he looks rather put-out. In fact, he is furiously brushing nonexistent dirt off of his fancy velvet clothes while cursing some common _Dunmeri_ curses. _Oh, he's a Dunmer!_ I don't think I'm related to him, though. _That's racist._

"Well?" the Dunmer snaps, still staring at his spotless outfit. "Grovel, you _s'wit_." He snorts imperiously and runs a carefully-manicured hand through his painstakingly-styled black hair. I am tempted to slice off that one asymmetrical braid that hangs down the side, but I resist. "What do you Skyrim savages say?" he grumbles rhetorically. "Ah." He snaps his fingers. "Milk-drinker, is it? How droll." He finally lifts head to glare haughtily at me, but then he squeaks in a thoroughly undignified manner and scampers away to hide behind Hadvar. "Don't kill me!"

I tilt my head and stare at him curiously. "Why would I? Wouldn't. Why wouldn't I?"

All four of them—Cynric, Hadvar, the not-Khajiit stealthily hovering beside Hadvar, and the slightly familiar Dunmer—stare at me blankly. I mirror their action, trying to stare at all of them at once, but I have to turn my head back and forth a bit.

"Er… you don't… recognize me…?" the Dunmer asks nervously, and I shrug. He blinks, clears his throat, and struts out from behind Cynric. "Ha!" he says snottily— _oh, wait…_ "That will be your last mistake, for I am the Drag—"

I gasp and point at him. "You're that!" I shout, and he freezes, the expression of fear returning to his face.

"I will Shout you into Oblivion, or 'Sovengarde,' as you _savages_ say," he says, but he is clearly trembling.

"Yeah!" I agree happily. "Yelling and volcanoes and friendship! Hell's Gin!"

The Dunmer blinks, and then gasps and points at me just like I did him. " _B'vek_ , you are the brain-addled prostitute who talked to me at the border!" he cries.

"You weren't doing so sane yourself," I rebuke him, and he immediately glowers at me.

He crosses his arms and raises his head snootily— _no, snottily._ "I was _de_ hydrated and _starving_ , _fetcher_." He snots— _no, snorts_ —again and raises his head even higher so that I am looking at his chin. "I was fighting bravely to save your worthless Nordic world, but my cowardly opponent fled from my supreme presence."

"No," Hadvar suddenly interrupts, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You screamed and ran," he says slowly. "I offered to cut your binds, but you spat in my face after calling me a cannibalistic barbarian and then ran out of the city screaming. I remember."

The Dunmer turns to him with a snarl, his head finally tilted down to eye level. "You _dare_ imply that _Serjo_ Redoran Elliyas is a liar?" he snarls.

"That's me!" I supply.

 _Serjo_ Red… er... Ellis spins to glare at me next. "Oh, and who are _you_? Some daughter of a _n'wah_ thinking that you're some uppity _sera_ worthy of respect just because you discarded yourself into this cesspit of a dung-infested poor excuse for a country?" His voice grows steadily louder until he is essentially shouting at me by the end.

I blink at him. I do not know why he thinks my father was some sort of slave, but I do know that it was intended as an insult. I do not like him, so I take a deep breath. "My name is _Sera_ Hlaalu S'tharon Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lyssyssrys, _Sheogorath'm gah'amer_ ," I state without once pausing.

There is a moment of perfect silence that delights me, but I cannot keep quiet for long.

"Since I have more words in my name, I'm more important," I point out.

Ellis gets over his shock at an apparent Breton having a _Dunmeri_ state of address, and scoffs snottily.

 _Snottily_. What is it with that word?

He scoffs again before I can think too hard. "What did you say?" he asks. "S'tharon? Ha! What kind of family name is that? You are nothing but a half-breed with Hlaalu blood so far up the line, it has rotted within you," he says with a toss of his head. " _I_ am _directly_ of House _Redoran_." He watches me imperiously, apparently waiting for a reaction. "The most important house," he adds, but I only blink some more. "The noblest of nobility!" he shouts in frustration, and I nod.

"I'm not that," I reply, and he points at me furiously.

"I know! You're just some _half_ -Mer without a proper name," he hisses. I am about to remind him that I actually do have that—quite a lot of that, actually—but he continues being a snot without giving me a chance. "Your father is a disgrace to all Dunmer for not killing a sordid abomination such as you within your mother's womb," he snarls.

I think that is a bit harsh, but I'm caught on the word 'abomination'. It reminds me of 'snottily'. _Oh, this feels important._

"Hey!" Ellis screeches. "I am _speaking_ with you, half-breed!"

I wave my mace distractedly at him, still concentrating, and he skips back with a squeak of fear. It was something about the _dovahhe_. _I want to be one of those, but someone can kill them. Someone who dares… abomination… snot…_

I gasp and point at Ellis with my mace. "You!" I shout, and he jumps, valiantly trying to keep a lordly expression on his reedy face. I crack my neck side to side and prepare to bash that lordly expression right into his skull so that it flies out the other end and splatters all over the city. "I will _murder_ you, murderer of _dovahhe_ ," I hiss, but, before I can, three pairs of hands grab at me and Ellis runs away with his metaphorical tail between his legs. "I will eat your heart without even adding honey to the strawberries! Your guts will hate them _selves_!" I shout after him, and I am satisfied to hear him yelp and speed up.

"Liar, was it?" the Nord, Hadvar, says kindly, but I do not look at him. I am still furious. "Remember what I said about trying to kill people? It's not a good thing."

"I don't care," I growl and strain after the quickly-disappearing form of the fleeing Dunmer. I will remember his name. Elliyas of House Redor— _no that's not it. Uh, Ellis of Reedramble. Yes._

"Ma'dran cannot understand you, friend," the not-Khajiit purrs. His voice is even dreamier than Cynric's and I am tempted to hug the person who is not a kitty but sounds just like a kitty. I relax, and it is then that I realize I have been speaking _Dunmeri_ ever since Ellis Ragwimple insulted my father _. I will throw cinnamon into Ellis Rubalcohol's eyes, mark my thoughts._

With a huff, I relax my arms and wait for the trio of hand pairs to release me. At Hadvar's apologetic order, I sheathe my mace and continue walking. My murderous thoughts eventually fade into the background over the next couple of seconds, and I yawn. The lack of sun is making me sleepy.

"Oh please, please someone help me," a pitiful-sounding voice wafts in from the left, so I blink awake and turn to face it. All old voices sound pitiful, to be honest, but this one sounds particularly pitiful because it asked for help. "Help an old madman, someone, please…"

Always happy to help a kindred spirit, I skip up to the holder of the voice and am delighted to see that he is a Dunmer like half of myself and someone that I hate, I think. I do not hate this one, though. "I'm Liar," I say as is only polite. "How may I help?"

The old Dunmer sobs in what I hope is joy and shoves a bone into my hand. "Go to the Pelagius Wing," he sniffles, "in the Blue Palace. Bring back my master, please!"

I look at the bone. Thankfully, it is nice and clean, no blood to be found, so I stick it into my breastband for safe keeping. "Alright," I tell him as Hadvar taps me on the shoulder and gestures towards the direction we were going in with a sheepish expression on his face. "You have a good day now," I say as Hadvar asks me kindly to keep moving so that he can drag me before the Jarl for judgment.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, kind soul!" the old Dunmer shrieks. "Just tell my master that Dervenin begs him to return from vacation! Please! He might not kill you! Maybe! Not that it really matters to me if he does! As long as you give him the message before he does!"

"Okay," I say cheerfully. I wave but then turn to follow Hadvar again. "Where's the Blood Malice?" I ask him.

"That's where we're headed right now," Hadvar states. "How convenient!"

I nod. "It's a good thing you arrested me, then," I reply.

Hadvar laughs and pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sure you won't get executed," he says. "You're no Stormcloak, right?" He suddenly halts and turns to give me a piercing glare. "Right?" he repeats fiercely.

I shrug. "I don't even know what that is," I retort, "and I hardly think I'm something that I don't even know what that is."

Hadvar's smile returns and he keeps moving. "Wonderful! I wouldn't want to hang such a cooperative young lady."

I flutter my lashes and preen a little bit. "I've never been called cooperative before," I admit, a bit embarrassed. "That was very kind."

"I'm just here to help out anyone I can," Hadvar replies bashfully.

"Liar, he's arresting you!" Cynric breaks in. I forgot that he was following.

"I am arresting her," Hadvar agrees at Cynric, "and I don't want to arrest you too for resisting me arresting her."

"Gods, this is ridiculous," Cynric mutters, but he does not stop following. He seems a bit irritated. _He should stop being so negative about everything and just enjoy life. Like Shadowmere._

Shadowmere is happy as long as he has fruits and vegetables and horsie grains and souls to devour. He lives a simple life, and yet he is joyful and snorts fire and his hooves reach into the depths of Oblivion. _I love him more than snow. In fact, he would melt snow._ That's a bit of a shame, since snow turns into wetness after melting, but I still love Shadowmere with all my bloody heart. _Oh, ew, hearts are bloody._ I saw one of those before. A child was eating it—no, just stabbing it. No, stabbing _near_ it. _He was probably one of those literate children._

The not-Khajiit is still following for some reason, but he has a nice purring voice and I want to ruffle his ears. I remember that he is a not-Khajiit, so he does not have ears at all. That makes me a bit sad, but I perk up once I see the Hullabaloo Place. It is rather large.

Hadvar politely holds the door open for me and so I offer him my gracious thanks. He graciously welcomes me in return and does not even ask for sexual favors. So far, I am liking Hadvar and his happy Nord demeanor. He seems a good sort, like Shouty but nothing like Shouty. Most people are good sorts if you give them a chance. Like the twins _. Oh, no they're not twins. Just because they're both guards doesn't mean they're related._ It would be odd if they were related because they look nothing alike _. I think._

I am not too good with physical appearance other than my own. My physical appearance takes so much of my attention, so that is probably why everyone else's is inconsequential. _Maybe I wouldn't eat all the pretty people as a_ dovah _, then. It'd be hard to separate the pretties from the potatoes._ I'd rather eat potatoes anyway, although I suppose eating people is fine. They're not animal meat, after all. Argonians and Khajiit would be unacceptable, though. I'm a little iffy about Orsimer, but I don't think they count as sweet little animal creatures, even though they have tusks like horkers. Only sometimes, though. I think. _Orsimer would be a good name for a small child._

"The True High Queen of Skyrim, Jarl Elisif, should be just starting with her court today," Hadvar says genially as I step through the kind doors, "so we might need to wait a tad."

"Fans are not my strongitude," I admit. I can be impatient waiting to be paid attention to. Like Cynric right now. Speaking of, I glance back at my long-term temporary companion and point to the bone nestled against my breast. "Where was this leading to?" I ask him.

Cynric blinks rapidly a few times as he stares towards the bone. His mouth opens just a bit. "Uh. Um." He clears his throat. "The... boob… bone—yes, right. That. Right." He clears his throat again and looks up at my eyes. He seems a bit unfocused. "The… Pelagius Wing, I think."

"Where's the Flaying Thing?" I say to Hadvar.

"Oh, it's thataway," he answers kindly as he gestures in some direction whose name I do not know. "It's locked up tight, though, and a rather severe fire hazard. A lot of spiders too, so I guess burning it down _would_ take care of that infestation."

I eye Cynric to make sure he was watching when Hadvar did his hazardous gesturing and fiery speaking, and it seems Cynric has indeed been doing so.

I yawn and pause behind a pillar. Hadvar looks at me quizzically before stopping as well in that accommodating manner of his. I wait for a couple guards to pass by so that we are hidden from just about everyone, and then slam the hilt of my mace against the center of Hadvar's forehead. His eyes roll back, and he collapses silently, but I catch him before he hits the ground and clangs up the whole place. With a soft smile, I gently rest him on the ground and curl him up as though he fell asleep like a small baby. I poke him with the spiky bit of my mace, accidentally drawing a prick of blood from his cheek— _ugh, ew_ —but he does not wake up. The not-Khajiit Ma'dran suddenly slips forwards and starts stripping Hadvar of his armor for some reason and then hurriedly putting it on himself. With a smile to a stunned Cynric, I trot in a direction whose name I do not know.

"If you're looking for the Pelagius Wing," Cynric whispers loudly enough that I can hear, "it's this way." He glances once more at Hadvar's peacefully curled body that is probably not dead— _he's nice, so I didn't kill him_ —and then pulls me in the opposite direction whose name I also don't know.


	11. One Coin Unjoined, Oh Joy

_join me and my beta reader **maximsk** in our fairy circle excursion on the autumn solstice. RSVP soon. please RSVP. please. i don't want to be alone. god, please, please don't let me die alone, i beg of you_

 _enjoy!_

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11\. One Coin Unjoined, Oh Joy

* * *

" _I_ was the emperor, not some… dirty half-breed trying to usurp me… I just need her or... him or all that _muck_ out of the empire—I rule the empire, you know. I'll get those incompetent cleaning servants to clean _that_ muck."

"That seems smart," I acknowledge genially, "but then who's gonna clean the floors? Or the corpses? Or the empire?"

The tired-looking skeleton man sighs deeply and rubs his forehead. He appeared after I walked into the dusty fire hazard room and was transported to a fun little party outdoors where he and I are the only attendees. Now we are eating lunch together.

"No one can do it right," he mutters. He sounds rather distressed, so I pat him on the shoulder. He does not seem to notice. "No one can do anything right. Divines, I have to do everything myself."

"That's a shame," I say with my mouth full of sugary sweetroll. "You should get some friends so that you can not do anything at all. That's the best way to live."

"No, I can't trust anyone," the man states confidently. "They're all out to get me, see? What I have to do is just kill them all first. All of them." He finally looks at me rather than the table. "I'm almost done, you know," he says. He has crazy eyes. "The bodies are starting to pile up, but I have servants for that too."

"I thought you killed the servants for that."

"Oh." He scratches his head uncertainly. "I might have."

I yawn and grab another sweetroll. "What's your weapon of choice?"

"A headsman," he says eagerly. "Or two. As many headsmen as the country can spare!" He frowns and taps his chin. "Most of them are dead, though," he muses. "I can't be blamed for that. They brought it upon themselves. Hm… even the headsman leave me..."

"I didn't know you could herd sams," I say curiously. "Are they a kind of edible sugar muffin? I like those." Some icing gets all over my face. I try to lick it off, but my tongue is not long enough. "Could you lick this off my face?" I ask the man.

"Get the… headsman," he is muttering. "Maybe he's the one… get a headsman to kill the headsman."

I find a muffin and try to offer it to him, but he does not take it. "So that's a no?" I inquire. "Oh, I'm Liar by the way," I say as is only polite.

"Yes, yes… they all are… every single one..."

"Well, I'm going to take a nap now," I inform him.

All this sugar has started to make me sleepy. I yawn and rest my head on a soft bed of muffins and fall asleep to the murderous ramblings of this hilarious man at my side. _He's a good friend._

xXxXxXx

"Oh dearest me, I wasn't expecting company!" a happy man cries out.

I jolt awake with a snort, unsure how long it has been. The friend beside me has not moved at all, but a new man has appeared for some reason.

"It's so quaint, that I just want to flay you inside out on principle!" he continues jovially. He is wearing a handsome red and purple suit that makes me happy to look at. "Hah! Daedra above and below and horizontally and all, you must be a dear, dear friend to expect your life to stay yours after interrupting my tea party! The scones will go cold! Oh, someone should do something about all this food, maybe toss out some pot roast the corn-ears prepared."

I look around me, and muffin crumbs fall off my face. I press a hand against my cheek, capturing as much morseled muffin as possible before licking it off my hand. I look up to find that the new man is now staring at me thoughtfully as though preoccupied with some philosophical dilemma.

"I had something about entrails and cheese wheels," he says with a frown, and then waves his pondering expression away. "But for the life of me—haha, I've got a long one of those, eh?—I just can't recall! No one will! Pelagius certainly won't!" The man with the nice outfit looks to the person sitting beside me. "Eh, Pelly? You only remember those unimportant things like the name and face and every detail of the people who haven't been plotting to chop off that delightful head your entire life."

"I can hardly trust someone else to," my friend snaps.

"And who could argue that?" the purple man laughs. "No one! They're all dead! Nasty, nasty business, but what a joy for us all. Well, except for the dead ones. The poor nutters aren't blessed with your company anymore, after all! That goes for the live ones too."

"Lord Sheogorath!" I all but squeal, delighted to see my patron Prince standing before me in the flesh. Without hesitation, I throw muffins in the air and wiggle my legs happily from my seat at the table. The muffins fall back to the ground, and one hits the Pelagius fellow on the top of the head. He yells and looks around furiously. "I knew they were edible muffins!" I shout triumphantly.

"Who did that?" Pelagius fellow screeches as he jumps to his feet. "Who? You can't escape! _No one_ can escape! I have the power to decree you _dead_ , and no one else can ever stop—"

Sheogorath snaps his fingers, and Pelagius fellow explodes into a litter of at least a dozen severed fox tails. Thankfully, they are not bloody or else I might have vomited all over Sheogorath's nice dining table.

"Oh, that one has the nasty habit of rambling on and on and on and on _incessantly_ ," he sighs. "After all, what kind of host would _I_ be if I didn't stop such madness in my own home! Pelly's home. I own him, though, so it's mine. It's all _mine_ , ahahaha!" He spends many a second cackling madly until he is gasping for breath. "But what would _you_ know, what with your mortal sanity and human… humanity. You all should really be large enough for all the kings to ride so that we wouldn't all have to rely on those ridiculous pointy-headed mutant sharks."

"I killed a mutant shark once!" I realize in a loud voice.

Sheogorath applauds magnanimously and a waterfall of almonds falls into his lap and hands. "You know, I'd offer you some refreshments, but I won't. If you manage to catch them, though, you might get some prizes. Spear them all with the whales with the pointy bits—don't spear them with _their_ pointy bits."

I nod sagely as I munch on some cheese. I think there is a wooden knife in it, though, because it tastes like I am chewing on a wooden knife dipped in cheese.

Sheogorath gasps suddenly and pops an almond into his mouth. "Ah, but where are my manners?" he says cheerfully. "Have some refreshments!" He points at me and I spit out the wooden knife out of politeness. It is a bit chewed up now, so it looks like a fork like that other utensil. _Which wasn't a spoon._

"It _wasn't_ a goddamn spoon!" I hiss, suddenly filled with inexplicable fury.

"I say, where are _your_ manners?" he cries. "You, a mortal, show up in this here brain, insult my cutlery, and expect an audience?" He looks closer at me, his eyes holding a strange amount of clarity which one would not expect from the Daedric Prince of Madness. "And a _living_ mortal, no less," he gasps. "Here you are, interrupting my lovely tea of the decades with my favorite Mad King, and you have the infinite gall to be alive? The absolute nerve!"

"Sorry about that," I say sincerely. "We met a nice Dunmer who just seemed so distraught about losing his master that he gave us a hip bone and said to visit the abandoned wing in the Bubble Porous. How could I say no?"

"Oh, Dervenin and his pity act," Sheogorath snorts. "I deserve a vacation from all those terribly mad creatures in the Shivering Isles. I mean, that Haskill fellow? What a boor."

"I'm sure you do deserve a vacation," I assure him. "I'll just leave if you'd like."

"And waste your time?" Sheogorath retorts. "Perish the thought!" He eyes me for a moment, arms crossed, and then grins. A goblet appears in his hand and he lifts it as though to take a sip, and then glares and dumps it all on the ground. "Ugh, water," he mutters at the bloodred liquid soaking into the ground. "If only I could turn it into wine." He glances up at me again, the grin back on his face. "I've got a grand idea for you! If you manage to heal your way through Pelly's mind without being dead, then we'll both go home. How's that for a twist?"

"Needlessly complicated," I admit, "but how else would you become a knot?"

"Oh behave, you naughty girl!" he chortles. "You remind me of myself when I was young and not so much of a brilliant hero. So many rabid foxes and blood money and waving maidens and those _rainbows_ are just deadly to the eyes." He waves his hand imperiously. "Now, be off with you before I change my mind and turn you into an inverted tortoise shell that I'll spin like a top! Twists and turns galore!"

"Galor-ious," I agree, and snatch a sweetroll and a clump of cheese before I go. "I suppose I'll see you later whether I'm dead or alive."

"Now, that's a curious thing to say," he says with a smile.

I begin munching on my food. To my disappointment, however, it disappears right from my mouth and hands the moment I step onto the first path I see. I swallow nothing but air, which I think is considered breathing rather than eating. This path is nothing but a trail of dirt, but any trail is a dirt nonetheless, and I have nowhere else to go even if I am quite tempted to return to Sheogorath and eat more of his food while we chat about inane things. I realize, though, that he has no idea who I am and that is a tad disappointing. On the other hand, I cannot expect much from an immortal who acts almost completely according to whim. _Maybe if I do whatever vague task he wants me to do, he'll recognize me._

Sheogorath clears his throat so loudly that it echoes through the air and makes me halt in surprise. I look around, but he is not beside me. I look up, but he is not in the sky either—but he _is_ always in my heart.

"A _hem_ ," he says, his voice all around me. "Testing, testing, one, two. Now, let's begin our wonderful story! Most of it is written down already, but who would bother doing such a silly thing when you can run around in the book itself and change the words, eh? Ahem, ahem, ahem. Cough. So! Pelagius was always…"

Sheogorath pauses. As I wait patiently, there is a rather long stretch of silence. I hope Sheogorath has not abandoned me in this nice, verdant mind. There is the sound of fluttering pages, and then a huff of irritation.

"Oh, I will flay Dervenin," Sheogorath mutters. "All the blasted pages are out of order! Where's the doohicky? This is why no one changes words! Word is law, they all say; well _I_ all say fie on that law! Fie, I say!"

"M-master, that's the right order," a nervous and pitiably elderly voice pipes up. I think I recognize it, but who can recall. I certainly can't. Maybe this mind could, but I don't remember who owns it.

"What? How does that make sense?" Sheogorath mutters under his breath, and then an undignified squeak fills the air followed by the large pop of an Oblivion portal opening. With the sound of fluttering pages, a bound booklet flies up to land right at my feet.

I frown, unhappy with this gift of food for worms, but a gift is nonetheless a gift. With a sigh, I pick it up from the floor and open it to a random page. To my absolute joy, it is completely blank. I have fun flicking through the thing, searching for the pictures, yet there is still nothing. _I suppose that is alright, because it means that I can draw my own pictures in it or, even better, commission someone to draw those pictures for me so that I don't have to exert effort for them to be drawn._

"Eh, I'll just ad-lib this like all the greats," Sheogorath sighs from somewhere. The sound of crunching almonds fills the air, and I wish I had one. "Hm, le' see," he says around a mouthful of almonds. "Th' 'fink 'ere." Sheogorath swallows his food eventually. "Dervenin!" he suddenly yells. I hear a loud scream that quickly gets cut off, followed by the sound of Sheogorath howling with laughter. "We do have fun here, hm?"

"I'm having fun," I agree.

"Well, good riddance!" Sheogorath yells. "Usually they don't start enjoying themselves until they're dead or being threatened to death by a forceful lusty Argonian maid asking them if they are. Now go, go! Shoo! Let me prepare my speeches as you wear out your shoes."

I nod to myself and continue on. There is a lot of dirt that all looks the same because it is all dirt. I get lost many times even though I have not really gotten anywhere that I could know where I could be to get lost in. That sentence puts me at a loss, so I stop making sentences in my mind.

After some vague amount of time, I come across a clearing with a boy sleeping on a bed, his body twitching intermittently as he whimpers. Sheogorath's voice echoes from somewhere, so I reflexively draw my mace but my hand grasps empty air. It is then that I realize I am wearing nothing but rags and have no weapons. I grow a little panicked since that mace was a gift from my family, one that I have had for years, and I had been wearing my favorite outfit.

"Poor, dear, homicidal Pelly has—er _had,_ heh heh—been terribly nightmarishly terrified since he was just a—"

"Where are my clothes? And my mace?" I call out fearfully, interrupting Sheogorath's monologue about nightm-errors. He grumbles something under his breath, but suddenly a stick with a screaming face at the top appears in my hands.

"Oh, fine, fine, you little impatient baby horror," Sheogorath snaps. "I present thee with the Wabbajack, which is just grand! Now do your job or else your liver is mine to feast upon for eternity. Although, I'll probably share with the vultures," he adds after a moment. "Shoo, you damn vulture!" he shouts.

I stare at the Wabbajack, unsure what I am supposed to do with it. "It's a stick," I mumble observantly. "Am I supposed to eat it?" I nibble on the screaming face end, but it only tastes like wood. Since I do not want splinters on my tongue or in my eyeball, I decide that it is probably not for eating.

I only know one other method of utilizing a stick, so I begin drawing pictures in the dirt. The boy on the bed is still making silly whimper-y noises, but I ignore him so that I can make my masterpiece. First, I squiggle a little _dovah_ and then a few hapless stick humans who are about to get devoured. I add a little fire so that all the people are being burned alive so all that raw meat doesn't hurt my little _dovah_ 's sensitive digestive system. I look around for something to use as color. All I can see, however, is some old grass and dirts.

"Lord Sheogorath?" I call out. The sleeping boy whimpers at the sound like a limp wimp.

"Eh? You don't have time, little mortal! You're almost dead! Almost dead! What're you doing still standing there, you dead missus?" Sheogorath asks from the sky. "I told you to shoo!"

"I need some red," I inform him. I use the stick to point at my _dovah_. " _Dovahhe_ aren't dirty."

"Can't argue with that!" he admits. "Well, I can always find some peasant children and let Pelly slit their throats. His throat-slitters will, actually. What a riot! That's what the peasant children will do someday, haha!"

"No, not blood," I say regretfully. "I don't want to make the dirt all dirty with vomit."

"Ruin this perfect brain, why don't you," Sheogorath snaps, and then a small jar appears next to my _dovah_. "Just jam that into your picture, and it'll be just barely worthless!"

I open the jar and stick my tongue inside to find that it is strawberry jam. Delighted, I dump the whole thing out onto my _dovah_ , turning the picture into a giant blob of red goop. "Perfect," I whisper.

Now that that is done, the whimpering wimpy child is starting to get on my nerves. _Do you know how I solve problems, me? That's right, you do, I._

What me does is brandish the stick in my left hand, stalk up to the annoying child, and bash him hard across the head. As expected, that seems to work, but also a wolf appears out of nowhere. I bash that as well, and it explodes into a shower of peppermint. The smell fills the air, calming me, so I smack the little boy again. This time, an angry goat appears which I again hit hard, and this one turns into a mountain of baby rabbits who all disperse fearfully the moment they see me. Encouraged by the cuteness of a few dozen baby rabbits, I hit the little boy again, this time summoning a sexy woman who is wearing prettier clothes than I am.

Sensing an opportunity, I turn to her. "I want your clothes," I inform her, waving my screaming stick threateningly.

"Mm, do whatever you want to me," the woman purrs. She is starting beyond me with empty eyes.

"I told you what I want," I remind her. "Your clothes."

"I want you so bad…" the woman sighs dreamily.

"I don't care what _you_ want!" I snap. "Let me take your clothes!"

"My body is ready…"

I keep trying to threaten her for her clothes, but she only repeats the same flirtatious lines over and over. I am not some kind of monster that will rip the clothes off a lady's back, so I resign myself to wearing rags forever. I still bash her, though, but she refuses to disappear.

"Like a brain," I comment. "No matter how hard I bash, they don't disappear. Unless I bash until they do. What a mess, though." I smack the jealous feminine across the head again.

"Why don't you get these clothes off me, handsome?" is all she says.

"Yes," I reply, frustrated, "I do want your clothes."

Sheogorath's voice again echoes around me again. "Creativity may kill cats," he laughs, "but this is killing _me_! Brilliant, mortal thing! You've got quite the head up there!" He snickers. "Pelly's dear mother was rather brilliant too, you know. She found out that the little children do sleep quite nicely when you mix a touch of honey into their mead to mask the taste of nightshade before bed. Pathetic milk-drinkers. Heh."

I preen as I am faced with his approval and instantly forget about the clothed woman. I continue his little trial with even more enthusiasm. While wandering about, I clamber over some kind of hill and make it to another clearing with a person, but this time there are two and one of them is very small.

"Ah, I see you've found Pelly's temper," Sheogorath again says from Somewhere, "and a nasty one it was. His mother's was worse, mind you, but at least hers was external. Pelagius, the dear, spent most of his time beating his own confidence down with those little flights of fury. Scary things, emotions. Now, fix him! Let him love himself!"

Stumped, I stare at the two twins. It bothers me that the twins are not the same size because twins should be the same size. The more I think about it, the angrier I grow until I cannot stand it. _I will beat the tall one into the ground,_ I decide furiously.

I whack the tall person a few times until he is no longer tall. The twins are still fighting each other, however, so I decide to teach them a lesson. I smack one of them with the screaming stick, and his height shoots up. I stare at him, angry that all my hard work has been undone. I heft the screaming stick again, ready to bash him back to the right height, but Sheogorath's laugh makes me pause.

"Ah, brilliant yet again," Sheogorath cheers. "Look at how confident Pelly is now! If only you'd been in his head during his life; maybe he would have massacred fewer people, eh?"

I nod, pretending to understand. I do not know what I am doing, but I am good at it. Sheogorath seems to think I am some sort of mastermind even though I am just hitting things as hard as I can indiscriminately and sometimes they explode or change size.

I wander more until I see an arena where two demons are fighting each other. _Who dares force these poor creatures fight each other for entertainment?_

I cast my gaze about until I see a cluster of people cheering like there is something to cheer about. I decide that it is my solemn duty to hit those people on the other side of the little amphitheater. Getting to them takes me a while because I have to carefully make my way over the rocky terrain, but I am determined to massacre the bastards.

The moment I smash their stupid heads in, they all turn into shrubs. Satisfied, I inform the demons that they are free to leave. They ignore me, but now they are fighting of their own free will _. It is not my place to interrupt such a sacred pact._

As I trot away, I must admit that Sheogorath has great style, as none of the enemies whose skulls I crack bleed a single drop of blood. Rather, they just turn into strange and delightful objects that baffle and amuse. I wander about happily for a while until I forget what I am to be doing. I begin drawing some happy pit wolves mauling their cruel captors.

"What are you waiting for?" Sheogorath's cross voice emanates through the air. "A royal summons? Get back to the banquet hall!"

I quickly draw one more headless person and then dutifully make my way back to Sheogorath. He is lounging on his throne when I arrive and eating a large carrot. He grins at me when I take the seat across from him, and a strawberry torte appears in front of me the moment he snaps his fingers.

"That was a joy," he snickers. "You're supposed to magic people with the Wabbajack, not knock off their heads, but that's what makes it fun, eh? Unpredictability. You mortals are too young to get stuck in your ways for long, but most immortals can't separate eternity from life. That's where I come in, little mortal," he says meaningfully. "I make immortality worth it, so maybe I'll even make mortality worth it, hm?"

He giggles, and I take a bite out of the strawberry torte in front of me. There are no utensils, so I use my hands, but I don't mind. It tastes like a cinnamon roll.

"I kid," he says cheerfully. "Mortality's never, ever worth it." He laces his fingers together and leans forward so that his gaze captures my own. "You. I'm making you my Champion," he decides.

"I'm already your Champion," I inform him, and he furrows his brow in confusion.

"I thought I adopted a child?" Sheogorath says slowly.

"That was me," I reply.

"You're not a baby!" he shouts back.

"Thank you!"

"Ah, how confusing," Sheogorath grumbles, "but no matter. I will rip rabbits from your stomach if you deny me."

"I already said yes," I remind him, and he leans his head back against his throne.

"Sigh," he says before actually sighing. "They always reject me..."

"I'm a one Daedra kind of girl," I state seriously, and he frowns in disappointment.

"Oh?" he inquires. "Who is the lucky Prince?"

"You."

"By _me_!" he shrieks before clapping his hands. Off-key trumpets echo through the air and a blizzard of flower petals sweeps through, contaminating all the food with plant life. Since plant life is generally healthy, I don't pay it any mind and just keep eating my torte. "What a happy day! Have a stabbery turtle, on me." The torte that I am about to take another bite of suddenly turns into a carrot cake while the carrot he was munching on disappears.

I gaze at the carrot cake for a moment, and then take a bite of it. "This is a good strawberry torte," I affirm.

"Isn't it?" he preens. "It's made of the entrails and jam of a watermelon!"

"Ohh..." I nod thoughtfully and continue eating.

"Ha!" Sheogorath cries gleefully as he sits up straight in his throne. He points at me triumphantly. "You've eaten of my banquet, mortal! You are now bound to me forever!"

"Oh," I say, unbearably pleased. "Good."

"Yes! Good!" He snaps his fingers with a toothy grin, and he waves his hand so that a bottle of wine appears in his grasp. "Now, how can I convince you to give me your soul after death?" He gasps and jerks the cork off the bottle with his teeth. "Ee no, ee coo toon oo into 'n elf," he says around the cork. He spits it out straight towards me, but it flies into an Oblivion portal right before it hits my face. "They live for centuries!" he continues. "That's a good deal, isn't it?"

"But I'm already part elf," I say confusedly. "I'm a Breton. And a half-Dunmer."

"Oh, what a conundrum!" Sheogorath says after a drumroll fills the air. Another portal opens up and the cork shoots out to land into Sheogorath's waiting hand. He begins to twirl it on a finger. "I probably knew that…"

I nod. "Mmhm, but Bretons aren't considered Mer, I think, just human with a pinch of elf slop inside."

"Ooh, the plot thickens!" Sheogorath cries. He flicks the cork into the air, and it turns into an egg that breaks the moment it hits the ground below. A tiny cow runs out of the crash site and dashes away. "Perhaps if we add a bit more water and a bit less flour," he muses, "then we could fix it…"

I shrug. "I'm not sure about flowers, but if I were normal—"

"Ha!" Sheogorath sputters.

"If I were a non-Breton," I correct myself, "I'd be half-Dunmer Mer and half…" I pause, unsure at what a Breton would be without elven blood. "…Whatever, but instead I'm half Mer plus the Breton Mer bit which is…" I gaze up at the sky as I try to think, but I am not particularly successful.

"Time for a little mental mathematics, eh?" Sheogorath says cheerfully. He takes a long draught straight from the wine bottle and then grins with purple-stained teeth. "And they said it would never come in handy!" he cries. "Numbers are from zero to one to two to three to four to…" He pauses to take another drink. "How old were you again? When you were a baby?"

"Less than that," I guess.

"Delighted. Now." He slams the wine bottle onto the table, and three nearby plates turn into potted lavender plants. I immediately reach out and pick some sprigs to replenish my supply. "It's time we get to the bottom of your botty."

"Body," I correct him gently.

"Botty," he retorts.

"Body."

"Botty."

"Body."

"Body."

"Botty."

He narrows his eyes at me. "What does that mean?"

I open my mouth, but no words come out. "I forgot," I realize.

"Maybe it's because you're two thirds elf and only one third human," he muses, one finger tapping his chin.

"Hmm…" I tap my chin musingly and try to make thoughts run through my brain properly. "No…" I decide slowly. "Not enough."

"Tricky!" Sheogorath cries with gusto. "Tricky indeed. This calls for refreshments!"

A few kittens fall from the sky, mewling pitifully as they tumble to the ground. They all look unharmed, thankfully, and one of them lands in my lap. I stroke its soft velvet fur musingly, and it helps clear my chin somewhat.

"Three of five, then?" I supply.

"Too banal," he says airily. "Six-and-a-third tenths?"

"Too convoluted," I decide. "Seventy-one of one hundred fifteen?"

"Much too much. Two hundred fifty-five two hundred fifty-seconds?"

"That sounds about right…" I agree, and then gasp. "Oh! nineteen of twenty-nine, obviously!"

"Ah, of course!" Sheogorath slams one fist on the table, which shakes threateningly but does not splinter. "How could I have not realized? Tsk tsk, my dearest Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu."

I am so surprised that I cannot even remember why those words sound so familiar. "Who?" I ask hesitantly.

He points at me. "There."

"Me?"

"You."

"You… remember my name?" I inquire, dumbfounded.

"Well of course I do!" he yells. "That's the whole reason I chose you! That name of yours is so purely mad, that I claimed you as soon as I heard!"

"Oh yeah…" I recall slowly. "Fenri mentioned that."

"And now look at you," he says happily. I do so, and delightedly realize I am now wearing fine clothes rather than rags. "All grown up and my second Champion! I'll have to get Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu and Liar to duel for first place, eh?"

"I'll win!"

"Brilliant, my darling!" he laughs, clapping his hands. "Eighteen twenty-sevenths human, hm?"

I shake my head. "No, nineteen of twenty-seven Mer."

"Nineteen twenty-ninths elves, really?" he asks, baffled. "Are there more elves now? Where'd they come from?"

"I think we lost a few, actually," I say. "The underground ones."

"Which, the blind or the stupidly smart?" he asks, and I frown.

"I'm not sure," I admit.

"Well I do, and you're right," he retorts confidently.

I feel my face color with pride, and I bob my head to him. "Thank you!"

"Shame, though, that you sliced up your name like a crowd of peasants," he grumbles, "because it's just so absolutely delightful!"

"I'd love to be named after me," I admit.

"You might be right for once!" Sheogorath cries. "Ohh, I really should replace that old Pelagius Wing with the Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu Wing. Got a nice ring to it, eh?" He cackles for many long seconds, and then suddenly halts, his next words thoughtful. "Hm, first you've gotta get on the throne, though… I could call in a few favors with Sithis and..."

"Didn't someone get to yell a king away?" I ask when he trails off into silence. "I could do that."

"Politics, politics, politics," he scoffs, snapping his gaze right back to me. "It's all phooey, so just go and slice people to death. It worked well enough for the Septims, eh? They got their own dragons and coins and even a dynasty." Sheogorath stands up with a chuckle and then wipes his hands against each other. "Well, I bid you farewell for now. Enjoy the symphony I wrote for you, my dear Champion."

An Oblivion portal appears behind him with a loud pop, and Sheogorath steps into it just as an orchestra of instruments appears out of nowhere. There is no one playing them, though, so it is just silence.

All the kittens are now gone, except for one, a tiny black one that will match my clothes and Shadowmere stunningly. I have to give the Mad God props for thinking of my vanity even in this, and I pick up the small creature gently. After blinking brilliant yellow eyes, it mewls fiercely and yawns, showing off its tiny little needle teeth, and I hug the warm fuzzy thing tight to my chest.

"Madanach, True Ruler of the Fursworn," I murmur into his cute little head. "The King in Fuzz."


	12. Pissy Piddles

_eyyy im back. thanks **maximsk**! for beta-ing and, like, existing. and thx all yall ily *heart*_

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12\. Pissy Piddles

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As Madanach gives me a head massage with razor-sharp claws, I wander about the Brood Patience. None of the guards seem to mind my coming and going even though I have a large weapon over one shoulder, a stick stuck in a silent scream slung across my back, and an unlucky kitten on my head, but I suppose it is because I am invisible. _I guess Brynjolf really is a good teacher; it just took a while for the knowledge to fester inside me before it could explode into the world._ I'll teach Madanach this new knowledge, and then he can meow all his kitten heart desires without being seen by anyone _. His yellow eyes should hide him well enough, though, so he should probably teach me._

There is a convenient and lonely set of stairs in the middle of the large foyer, so I decide to make use of them. To make stair-climbing fun, you have to do it right, so I treat this situation with the delicacy it requires.

I eye the stairwell critically, gauging proper distances and springiness.

The bottom stair is right in front of me. It is tempting to just step onto it, but I must resist the urge.

I take a deep, calming breath as I wait for my eager heartbeat to slow.

 _Breathe in, breathe out…_

 _Breathe in, breathe out…_

 _Breathe in…_

 _Breathe out…_

 _Jump!_

With a hoarse battle cry, I leap with all my might and land upon the third step. The noise echoes throughout the room, but it fails in its dastardly plot to make me topple down all three steps and crack my lovely egg-skull open. _I am the god of stairs._

The hubbub of voices that I had not noticed until now suddenly stops.

"Did you hear something?" someone murmurs as I prepare to leap again.

Madanach hisses unhappily as I trip a bit on this next lunge, but I manage to scramble myself onto the fifth step with relative ease. These stairs are polished and highly dangerous, but my scuffed and dirty boots that are leaving tracts of sludge on the beautiful reflective surface have traction fit for the slimy sewers throughout Skyrim.

"There it was again!" another someone murmurs aloud louder.

"Was that a... cat?" a third voice inquires.

 _How many people are in this damn place?_

There is the sound of even more murmuring of even _more_ voices when I make it to the seventh step, but neither this echoing nor this heckling will break my spirit or my face but in the opposite order. By the ninth step, Madanach is digging his claws into my head out of necessity and disgruntlement, and I hear the scraping of seats and clattering of footsteps from the floor above. Since I realize there is a conspiracy out to arrest me, I quicken my pace, making it to the eleventh, the thirteenth, and then I lose count but I stumble to the top after a few more ones and ones and so on and so one and one.

My stumbling throws me right into the path of someone that I knock to the ground. I almost fall on top of them, but I slam my mace into the polished wooden floor before that can happen.

"By Akatosh, my floor!" a redheaded man screeches.

This is a big house for one person to own, but I suppose the redhead must have acquired it through black magic or even more dastardly means. Such as the sacrifice of cute animals and their babies. _Oh, I will kill this man, even if he's Brynjolf like the redhead!_

"By Akatosh, the jarl!" the man next shouts, and I glance down to find a pretty blonde lady sprawled about the floor. I hold out my mace to her to give her a hand—mace—but everyone nearby gasps.

"Save the jarl!" a few people shout.

I nod because that is what I'm doing right now. The jarl does not grab onto the mace, but she blinks up at me with a terrified expression. _Maybe it's the kitten on my head._

"I'm Liar," I say as is only polite. I notice a few swords being drawn and pointed towards my throat, but I pay them no mind.

"Step away from the jarl!" a man shouts. "Don't move!" I'm not sure how I can do both, but I am pretty brilliant in completing the impossible against all oddities, so I do neither.

"I'm sorry for knocking you down," I tell the jarl sincerely as I jiggle my mace at her. She narrows her eyes, more confused than terrified now. "I tripped on the top step. I'll pull you up if you'd like, or you can get up on your own if you're proud or an overachiever like that."

"I…" the jarl looks around at all her guards. "Stand down," she says in a quavering attempt at an authoritative voice.

"But Jarl Elisif!" the same man who told me to do the impossible cries out.

Jarl Elisif squirms a little on the ground. "Stand _down_!" she orders in a somewhat less quavering attempt at an authoritative voice.

 _She's learning!_

Jarl Elisif takes a trembling breath and tentatively grasps a non-spiky part of my mace. I heft her to her feet and almost topple backwards onto a sword poking at my back since I overestimate my own strength versus the Jarl Elisif's smallness. _Like my kitten. Jarl Elisif isn't as fierce as my kitten, though._

"You have a kitten on your head," someone pipes up. I feel as though the voice is familiar, but I cannot place it.

"I have a kitten on my head," I agree as I rove my gaze about.

Jarl Elisif lets go of my mace and backs away the second she can, and I sheathe it for politeness' sake. After it joins the Wabbajack on my back— _rhyming!_ —I notice that I have attracted quite the audience. There are at least a dozen people around me, not even including the guards. I do not bother myself with all of those ones, however, since I have a quest to find the Fabled Voice of Familiarity.

Finally, I notice the person who must have spoken because I feel as though I might recognize him from somewhere. "You," I decide.

He offers me an uncertain smile as I daintily push the sword that was previously pressed against my back away from me. I think it is the same duckling who told me to perform the impossible and yelled at the spindly kitten lady, but I can't be sure as he only glares at me this time.

"I'm Liar," I say as is only polite. He sheathes his sword with a snarl and continues to glower at me, but he does not speak. I nudge my way through the crowd of normal people and guard people to stop in front of the only apparently coherent person in this place. "I'm Liar," I say as is only polite.

The coherent's uncertain smile turns into a more certain one, and he holds out a hand to shake. "Hadvar," he says.

No cow bells are ringing in my neck, so I suppose he is a new friend. I hold my hand out to him like he is. To me, though. We stand there silently for a moment until he gingerly reaches forwards, clasps my hand into his, and shakes it. I shake back until he eventually extracts his hand.

"...Have we met… before…?" Hadvar asks me after another pause.

I put my hand down and study him. He is a burly Nord with brown hair and a strong voice, but I'm not sure if I can pin the tail onto him. I shake my head morosely, and he frowns.

"Ah, forgive me," he says with a small laugh. "I've had an odd day."

"Oh, I have too," I empathize. "I was almost arrested, you know."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Hadvar replies sincerely. "Was it one of those Stormcloak…" He suddenly trails off and stares beyond me with his mouth hanging open just slightly. He shakes his head and gives me another smile, but somewhat trembly this time. "Well, I'm sorry to hear about your troubles," he continues, "but I ought to get to work myself. I somehow fell asleep this past hour, so I have lots to do to make up for it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I reply sincerely. "I do hope you weren't hit over the head."

Hadvar laughs and pats me on the shoulder. "My life isn't _that_ exciting, Liar," he says as he walks off. He looks a little unsteady, but that might just be the light. I blink and squint, trying to change my mental light, but nothing even flickers. _Strange, that. I thought the sun flickered._

I look about curiously, a bit surprised to see that the crowd has not dispersed. In fact, that one angry guardsman with the pointedly pointed sword pointed suspiciously at myself, is glaring at me quite insistently.

"I'm Liar," I remind him as is only polite.

He gives me a huff and sheathes his sword which I had thought he had already sheathed, but he had apparently taken it out again sometime within the last few seconds. Either that, or he has two swords, but then he would be a cheater.

"You may address me as General Tullius of the Imperial Legion," he snaps, "Military Governor of Skyrim and adviser to the true High Queen."

I have already introduced myself a couple times at this point, so it might be overly polite to do so again. "I'm Liar," I say as is only overly polite. There is no answer, which is rather rude. "Well," I continue in the proceeding silence, looking about my audience, "it was nice of you all to welcome me into your home, but I've been here before."

"You _will_ pay for the damage to my floor!" the other Brynjolf yells, and I frown at him.

"That's not a good way to welcome someone," I advise him, just like Gemhole Talented probably advises the true Hiccup of Skyland. _Everyone has so many damn titles, I don't know how they can memorize them all._

When no one else seems inclined to reply— _which is how to kill a conversation, by the way_ —I cast my bored gaze about once again. Nothing seems particularly out of the ordinary. There's a guard with a sword and shield and a helmet off to the left; there's a woman staring vacantly into the ceiling off to the center-left; there's a fidgeting guard wearing a set of armor that is clearly too big for him and various black cloths or clothes that cover any other possible exposed flesh even though I can see two catlike eyes staring at me with a bit of fear, standing a good foot behind all the others; there's a cute sparrow that must have flown in from outside off to the top-right; there's a small kitten lady fiddling with her bracelet off to the in-front-of-me.

 _Nothing out of the ordinary._

I wonder if I ought to expose the sparrow as the assassin it clearly is, but I do not think there is a necromancer wandering about here.

A memory that I cannot be sure is real suddenly pops into my brain. "I think I was supposed to talk to Jarl Elisif," I realize _. I'm sure someone told me to do that, even though I can't remember the who, the when, or the way._ "Do any of you know where she is?"

A few people hesitantly point to Jarl Elisif, the fragile kitten lady I knocked down, and she stops fiddling with her bracelet to straighten her posture. "Were you intending to attend my court?" Jarl Elisif asks me.

" _In_ tend," I correct her.

"That's what… I said, I believe." She looks around as though waiting for confirmation from her sycophants, and I think someone or another nods somewhat. Bunch of sycophants.

"You're right," I agree.

I lead the way into the room that looks all official-like since it has a pretty chair on top of a raised platform. I make my way up the steps and plop down into the pretty chair. There are some murmurs of shock— _this crowd sure does love its shockful murmuring_ —as I twist around to remove both my mace and the Wabbajack so that they do not pierce through my spine. I lean them gently against the side of the rather uncomfortable chair while clomping footsteps like a horsie's approach me far more closely than with which I am comfortable. I deign to glance disdainfully at my first supplicant, and it is that silly titled Turdius giving me yet another angry glare.

"Remove yourself from the Jarl's throne," he barks, "or we will do so forcibly."

"It might be hard to transport the whole chair," I say doubtfully. I stand up and inspect the thing. _On the other hand, if I can carry around a counter from that one other city where Revyn Sadri lives, then I could probably heft a large chair around._ I nod. "Alright," I agree, "but I don't want a splinter this time."

"Guards!" Jaded Turpentine shouts, and a few armored people stumble forwards. "Escort this woman out of the palace."

Flattered, I happily pick up my mace and the Wabbajack again and smile at my walking-mates. "Thank you for your kindness," I say demurely as they roughly grab my arms. "I would prefer it if you didn't carry me, though," I confess. "I appreciate the thought, but I don't want to get motion-sickness."

"The woman's daft," one of the guards mutters.

"Then close the windows," I reply.

They have not put me down yet, but it seems like they expect me to use my feet as well, which completely defeats the purpose of being carried. It is hardly gentleman-like to be dragged, so I can only assume that they are not strong enough to bear the weight of my blatant brilliance and the kitten on my head. Since they are being so thoughtful overall, though, I tolerate their woman-handling with dignity and only a little bit of biting. Ears are not the best part of the human to eat, but a nip there does make one squeal like a piggy.

By the time my kindly escorts get to the front doors, the two holding me are moving as quickly as they can and have red marks on their ears. Madanach adds a few terrifying baby hisses as well, but, for some reason, the guards do not seem to take him seriously.

The escorts apparently are only expected to take me _to_ the door, because they throw me out of it rather rudely. Unlike inside the Bugle Paula, I do not manage to keep my balance, and I topple right onto the ground with a loud "ow." Madanach lets out a long hiss in fury and leaps off my head. Before I can pick myself off the ground, I hear Madanach hissing and spitting at the retreating guards. A couple of them laugh and then the doors shut.

I am a bit stunned. I have never been bodily escorted out of an establishment so violently before and especially not with a kitten. The guards should have at least been aware that the small fluff atop my head is small and delicate and would not suffer a rough egress very well. I look around, but no one seems sympathetic towards my plight.

 _I don't like this city much._

I jump to my feet in one smooth motion, make sure everything of importance is in its proper place. My tits do not seem to have fallen out of their fabric harnesses, so nothing seems unsatisfactory. Madanach hurries to claw himself up my leg, sinking those little needles through the skin all the way up my stomach, my chest, my neck, and the side of my face. I am not a fan of the little beads of blood streaming down from various patches of skin across my body, but Madanach is also both important and now in his proper place.

I cannot be too distraught, as I am still energized from my delightful conversation with Sheogorath and my reception of two thoughtful gifts: the Wabbajack and the Madanach. Since I only use my mace with my left hand, usually, I'm hoping I'll be able to wield the screaming stick in my right hand so that I can bash and magic away the baddies without the whole eyeballs-spewing-blood-and-goo-everywhere fiascoes that my mace can get me into.

And so, this light heart leads me along the cobbled stones of this city, and I eventually end up at a place.

Everyone here is piddling about outside with swords and such—why I never see mace-wielders about, I'll never understand—and there are other people standing on the sidelines yelling at them. _That would be a nice job,_ I think _, to just stand and scream at people until they do what you want them to do._ Thankfully, I already do that and I don't even have to get paid! _Suckers._

I do not recognize any of these piddlers, though, so I continue walking through their piddle party. A few of them stop their piddling when I get near and one almost stabs me in the head when I wander in front of him, but no one gets very damaged by anyone else. Well, one of the piddlers is distracted by my sexy figure sauntering through his field and gets stabbed through the head by his piddler friend's sword, so he falls down screaming in a spray of blood. That one got a little injured, but he might not even be dead, so it's nothing to be so pissy about.

"Oh, hello again, Liar!" a vaguely familiar voice calls out from somewhat nearby. I look around, but I do not even need to bother finding the voice, because it comes straight to me. "Is court already over?"

"Hadvar," I remember. I smile at him as he halts in front of me. "They didn't offer me a chair, so I left," I explain, and he looks rather put-out.

"That's a shame," he says sympathetically. "They really do need more chairs up there, don't they."

"It is," I agree. "They do."

Hadvar sighs and rubs his head slowly. "Sorry," he says. "I'm usually better company than this, but my head isn't feeling the best right now."

"Did someone hit you?" I inquire curiously.

"No," he says, "but Legate Rikke has been yelling at me since she found me asleep. That'd give anyone a headache." He groans unhappily. "It's not like me to fall asleep on the job," he mutters, "and especially without clothes on."

That immediately piques my interest. People have the tendency to say that I don't have any clothes on, so perhaps I have met a kindred spirit. "Do you usually wear clothes?" I ask.

He jumps and gapes a little at me, a red flush creeping over his cheeks. "I…" Suddenly, he closes his eyes before smacking himself on the face with an open palm. He does not say "ow," like I would have, so I applaud his constitution. He drags his face off his hand after I finish clapping, his face now reddened by the force of his palm hitting it. "That was easy to misinterpret," he says sheepishly. "Forgive me. I meant—"

"I forgive you," I say.

Hadvar pauses and stares at me as though expecting something more, but nothing exciting happens. "Thank you," he replies hesitantly. "I meant that—"

"You're welcome," I say.

"Uh, thank y—no, never mind," he quickly corrects himself. "I only meant that I was unarmored. I was wearing clothes."

"So you _were_ wearing clothes," I surmise.

"Er. Yes." Hadvar looks around furtively, and I imitate his action.

A couple piddlers are staring at us with curious, confused, or cautious expressions on their faces. The rest are gathered around the crying stabbed baby on the ground. I begin to wave at one of them with the intention of shouting my name across the field as an introduction, but Hadvar draws me towards the wall before I get the opportunity. Madanach manages to meow a greeting at one of the piddlers as I trot after Hadvar, though, so I am a bit jealous.

"Anyway," Hadvar continues with less awkwardness than he had previously, "I was wondering if you saw anyone suspicious at all. Maybe someone wearing armor that didn't seem to fit or look right? I haven't been able to find my armor at all."

"Nothing out of the ordinary," I inform him, and he sighs despondently. I notice a cloaked figure neatly folding a set of armor just behind Hadvar.

"For some reason, I felt like you'd know," he says.

I stare right past him, delighted. "I found some armor!" I exclaim. The cloaked figure leaps high into the air as though it were a cat and then skitters away, hugging the wall like a Brynjolf sneak thief. _Brynjolf wasn't here with me, was he? No, but someone was…_

Hadvar spins around and gasps as he lays his eyes on the masterfully-folded armor. "How did you _do_ that?" he cries.

He rushes forwards and scoops up the gear from the ground, clutching it tightly to his chest as though afraid someone would come and rip it away from him like a baby. An unstabbed one. Hadvar gazes at me with pure awe in his eyes, and I bask.

"You… I am forever in your debt," he says gravely.

He looks like he wants to bow, but he cannot quite manage it because of the armor he is holding. I help him out by taking the mantle and giving him a bow. He grins in response and dashes over to a door across a brick wall that I thought was nothing but a wall. It has a door, though.

"If you need _anything_ ," Hadvar effuses as I follow, "let me know. I mean it."

"I do need to find someone," I realize. I know I am missing a person that should be with me. "I lost him somewhere."

"Oh really?" Hadvar inquires. "I'm privy to the Imperial Legion's official reports and the like, so I could keep you informed on someone's whereabouts." He giddily taps through a stone hallway whose floor looks just like its ceiling which looks just like its walls, and skids into a room that looks about the same. It, at least, has more beds than any one person should need and a pitifully small chest at the foot of each.

"That would make my day," I admit, and Hadvar gives me a smile before dumping his armor into one of the foot-chests. _That seems like some bad anatomy._

"Just tell me everything you can about them," Hadvar says. "Their name, age, race, place of—"

" _Serjo_ Redoran Elliyas," I interrupt fiercely, "commonly known as Elliyas Redoran. He's a Dunmer, shorter than average and with very dark gray skin, nearly black. He has eyes colored a bright shade of red with pure black pupils and very little color variation within the iris. He seems to wear expensive clothes unless he's dehydrated, and he has a substantial superiority complex—even for a Dunmer—paired with the belief of Mer supremacy over man. He speaks with disdain and arrogance and can go barely three words without complimenting himself or boasting about his bloodline and family name."

I add a short pause for dramatic effect, and I think it works.

"...He calls himself _Dovahkiin_ ," I hiss.

"I've heard of him," Hadvar says immediately. I beam at him. "He won't be hard to track at all. I'll send couriers for updates as long as you can tell me where you're headed next."

"Riften, I suppose," I suppose. "I have friends in Riften. "

"That's a Stormcloak city," Hadvar warns me, but I do not know what he means. "No matter," he continues. "How will the couriers know it's you?"

"I look like this," I state and gesture at myself. Hadvar studies me and then nods contemplatively. "Also, I ride a beautiful black demon horse named Stable Bears with hooves that create netherworldly shadows when he walks or gallops or even trots. I haven't seen him canter, though, so I can't be sure about that."

"That's indeed… distinctive," Hadvar says cautiously. "Er, any traveling companions and the like?"

"Well, I have a cat."

"I can see that," he agrees. "Any others?"

I hesitate. I don't usually travel with people, but usually isn't always and always isn't now. "I did," I say slowly, "but he's no longer with us."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Hadvar says sincerely.

"Mmhm, can you look for him too?" I inquire. "I don't need updates, just one date."

"You don't know where he was buried?"

I gape at him. "He was buried? What? Gods, someone needs to help him!"

Madanach adds a loud meow of agreement. Actually, it could have just been a yawn, since he curls up and goes to sleep directly after.

"I-I don't know," Hadvar stammers. "Dunmer burn their dead, right? Maybe he was burned?"

"I want to ascend into _dovah_ -hood," I tell him dreamily. "I won't die, but if I do, it'll be from a _dovah_ cremating me over the Red Mountain so that my ashes can join the volcano's and everyone can choke on my flying corpse as though I were a proper _dovah_."

Hadvar stares at me for a few moments while I dream about soaring through the air as a cloud of ash and suffocating my enemies to death. _I could be an ash_ dovah _!_

"Does this have anything… to do with your friend?" he finally asks carefully.

"Oh yeah, I had a friend," I realize. "Well, Cynric was with me when I visited the place with the shaggy deserts—actually he disappeared a little before that—and then when I came back with Madanach, I don't think he was there. I hope he's not looking for me."

"A missing child?" Hadvar asks, alarmed. "I'll get right on it! You said his name was Cynric? Do you have a description?"

I nod after a long hesitation. "He wears a hood usually," I begin. "He has two eyes and a jaw that's a bit square. A nice voice too. Uh, he's a Breton and he carries about a bow and double daggers. He's good at stealing things but even better at breaking out of pri—"

"If you tell me any more, I may have to arrest him," Hadvar interrupts a bit nervously, so I nod with my lips pressed tightly shut. "I'll see if he's still in the city."

"I'll be at the stable with my Meadow Shire," I say. "If you could send him there, that'd be kind of you."

"I'll do that," he says kindly.

That makes me wonder if I am supposed to kill him, but then I remember that she is already dead. _Probably a thrall, this one._ _Maybe that's why Cynric wears his hood all the time: He's a vampire. If so, however, I don't know why he hasn't drained the blood out of everything so that I can kill it without being all vomitous._

"Thank you, Hadvar," I tell him. "You are very kind, so I think I would have remembered you if we had met before."

"You too," he says with a chuckle. "Alright, I'll send your friend to the stables after I find him."

"Have a good day," I say as I leave.

He replies in kind, so I make my way to the stables in as straightforward a way as possible. It only takes me about an hour, which might be a new record for me. _Maybe Cynric's directional sense is contagious_. At the stables, the stablemaster seems very pleased to see me again and presents me with my horsie, who looks rather satisfied.

 **I frightened a herd of small children by snorting fire and stamping my hooves of eternal darkness,** Shadowmere says happily. **They ran away, yelling "tag!" which I assume is a human scream.**

"What a good boy," I tell him as I stroke his neck.

He snorts a bit of flame in joy and inquires on the whereabouts of his promised produce. I feed him an apple and a clump of grapes that I pickpocketed from a few of the people around Jarl Elisif when I wasn't paying attention.

 **I devoured the soul of a goat,** Shadowmere adds. I praise him as a very good boy once again and he dances on his little hooves **. If you feel compelled to trap souls in those sparkly gems I've seen about, I would appreciate some snacks during travel.**

"Absolutely!" I effuse. "I love stealing souls!"

The stablemaster backs away very quickly even though I am only hugging my Good Boy—he whinnies in joy—around the neck.

"Now we have to wait for Cynric," I inform him, and he does not seem very pleased.

 **I wish to run about and terrorize the countryside,** he retorts, so I reassure him by feeding him a few cabbages that I picked from Tubbius. Shadowmere forgets about the waiting and trots after me as I walk back to the gates of Sobbingtown.

I sit on the grass on the side of the road near the gates of the city and wait. Madanach claws his way off my head in preference for curling up on my lap, so I pet him aimlessly. I am half-asleep from the warmth of the not-sun, so I barely acknowledge someone approaching and sitting next to me until they speak.

"Ma'dran is curious as to why Liar is sitting with such an unhappy look on her face," a somber voice purrs. Madanach immediately looks up from his place on my lap and meows happily. "Hello, little one," Ma'dran adds to Madanach.

"Hello Ma'dran," I say distractedly. Madanach meows again, so I finally snap into focus. "I haven't seen you since I last saw you," I realize. "How are you?"

"Ma'dran is…" He hesitates. "Well, Ma'dran is not... " He sits down beside me and crosses his legs before placing one hand on each knee. "This one has no home anymore," he says, sounding very choked up. "Ma'dran's caravan has been put to the torch and his clan has been dispersed or... killed," he murmurs.

I turn my head to stare at the not-Khajiit. He is still wearing his cloaked outfit, but his head is bowed so I cannot see his pretty golden cat eyes. "That's… very sad," I say, surprised at how honestly sympathetic I am. It seems I am still a bit addled from all that half-sleeping nonsense. "Why did they do that? You weren't crossing the border, were you?"

The not-Khajiit shivers a bit before replying. "Ma'dran… does not know," he murmurs. His voice takes on a vengeful note that cheers me up immediately. "This one knows who is responsible, but not why they committed such a terrible thing. It may have been for no reason at all other than we are Kha—er, t-traveling merchants."

Madanach hisses angrily, and I mentally agree with him. "I could help you murder them all if you'd like," I say, and Ma'dran glances up at me quickly. "I'm sure we could find your family too."

"Why?" he asks, baffled. "You do not know this one at all."

Madanach decides to greet my new friend by trading my lap for his, so Ma'dran begins stroking the kitten's black fur with his black gloves. "Madanach likes you." I point to my purring kitten. "That means you're a good sort."

"Oh," Ma'dran says. He sounds more curious than nervous, however, and he is silent for a moment as though thinking. _There's been too much of that going around lately; it's becoming an epidemic._ "Ma'dran accepts your help with great gratitude and offers his aid to cull your enemies in return." Madanach purrs and rubs his little kitten head against Ma'dran's stomach.

"What fun!" I gasp eagerly, and the not-Khajiit's cat eyes blink at me. "We'll go as soon as my friend joins us. Shaggy Mud is big enough to carry all three—four, sorry Madanach—of us."

"And Liar's friend shall not mind Ma'dran's presence?"

I shrug. "He hasn't minded much so far, really, so I don't see how this will be different."

We wait together for a while longer. I chatter aimlessly and Ma'dran comments back in his pretty purrs while Madanach travels between laps to get petted by everyone. Shadowmere munches on grass and occasionally absorbs the soul of a passing farm animal. I am growing severely impatient and the pile of farm animal corpses is growing severely tall by the time Hadvar finally returns.

"What took you so long?" I growl, and Ma'dran glances at me.

"We have been sitting here for five minutes at the most," he says, so I frown. It did not feel _that_ long, but I've never been good with time.

"Bad news, Liar," Hadvar calls out as he approaches. My heart sinks _. Bad news is rarely good news._ "Your friend isn't anywhere in the city, it seems. I'll ask around some out here, but I don't think we'll have any luck."

I sigh and flop down in the grass. Madanach immediately meows and hops off Ma'dran's lap to curl up on top of my throat. It is a little breath-restricting, but I am good at holding my breath. "Thanks, Hadvar," I say sleepily. _There really isn't much to do here, so I suppose I could sleep._

I wait for what seems like years, yawning widely every while or so. Shadowmere is still eating grass happily beside me and Madanach has moved to sitting atop my face. Whenever I yawn, I get some fuzz in my mouth, but Madanach does not seem to mind. I have more than the right number of companions, but I still know I am missing one. Shadowmere has a mental voice and Madanach has a meow-y voice that's a little similar to Ma'dran's and I know there is another voice that's not my own that should be here but isn't.

"Ma'dran is curious of your reason for waiting," the not-Khajiit says. He is sitting beside me and I do like his Madanach-like voice, but it's not the right one.

"Ma'dranach," I say aimlessly as I reach upwards to tickle Madanach's chin. He purrs loudly against my finger and stabs my face with four feet of sharp claws. "I'm waiting for my friend," I reply. "He's not here."

"Liar's friend is not returning," Ma'dran says sympathetically. "The Cynric is not within the city, remember? Hadvar is keeping his eyes out."

"He should put them back in," I muse. "Unhealthy."

"Ma'dran wishes to help," the not-Khajiit says uncertainly, "but does not know how."

"I have Ma'dranach and Souping Meal, so I'm alright," I say.

Madanach yawns widely, making a cute little noise in the back of his throat as he does so. I can imagine his pink little tongue stretching out as he shows off his adorable little white needle teeth, and I smile.

 **I am adequately saturated with grass,** Shadowmere grumbles, **and I disliked the frightened man-child anyway. I desire to frolic about like a proper stallion.**

"No luck, my friend," I hear Hadvar call out from behind. "Cynric seems to have hired a wagon and left for Riften."

"Now I have even _more_ friends in Riften," I realize. "I suppose that's a good enough reason to visit."

"You wish to go to Riften?" Ma'dran inquires, and I shrug as I pull myself to my feet.

Madanach does not appreciate being dislodged from his comfortable curl crushing my face, so he makes a small meow of distress and hops onto Ma'dran's arm. Ma'dran immediately begins petting his newest hitchhiker.

"We'll go murder your friend-murderers first," I say, and Ma'dran seems to purr.

"Er, I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Hadvar mutters. "If you're heading out, then, I wish you luck in your… endeavors. W-whatever they may be."

"Thank you, Hadvar," I say happily.

I give him a hug for good measure, and he blubbers something about keeping me updated on the _dovahkiin_. I consider falling asleep here since he is quite a comfortable body pillow, but he gently extricates himself after some amount of time.

"N-not a problem," Hadvar says hastily. He gives me, Ma'dran, and even Shadowmere and Madanach a wave of goodbye before heading back into the city.

I brush the grass off myself and look around for a sign somewhere that could tell me where to go. Suddenly, a series of bells begin tolling. It startles Shadowmere and Ma'dran, but Madanach and I do not bother giving it the time of day. _This city is quite boring._

"Oh, gods, the bride has been killed!" someone screams in a high-pitched voice.

"Vittoria Vici has been murdered!" another person shrieks.

"Assassins!" yet another person yells. "One of them is right in front of m—aauuuugh!"

I shake my head before pulling myself up onto Shadowmere's back as sounds of screaming and slaughter emanates from within Tolling Should.

"Bunch of whining babble warts," I mutter. _People make such a big deal out of everything._

xXxXxXx

 _"Do… Vah… Kiin!_ "

I perk up the moment I hear yelling mountains, and everyone else glances up at the shaking sky as well.

"Did the Greybeards not already summon this _Dovahkiin_?" Ma'dran asks.

I nod. "Maybe they got tired of waiting. If they didn't want to wait for things, though, they shouldn't be up on a mountain with dozens of steps to go."

"Ma'dran believes there are thousands, no?"

"Alright, so dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens," I amend. "It's still in the dozens."

"This thing is true," Ma'dran acknowledges. "Is this _Dovahkiin_ —"

" _Vosaraan wah Monahven… vothaarn kopraan_!"

I tip my head back and gape at the sky. "They did get tired of waiting," I realize.

"Do you know what was said?" my not-Khajiit friend asks.

"Get to the Throat of the World, you stubborn corpse!" I yell, and Ma'dran jumps in shock. "That's what they said," I explain.

"That seems rather… out of character," Ma'dran says, "unless Ma'dran is mistaken."

"I've never met the Greybeards," I admit, "but they seem like a serious—"

" _Kos paak, hi pahlok lir!"_ The ground rumbles with the force of this next Shout, and I stare back up at the sky. _"Daan do Vus los hin wah meyz,"_ the voices continue, _"Daan do ney Jul ahrk enook Fahliil, nu hi los nivahriin nu hi los dukaan kiir!_ "

"Be ashamed, you arrogant vermin!" I shout, and every companion of mine jumps in surprise. "You are responsible for the dire fate of Nirn, the dire fate of both man and Mer, but you are a cowardly, dishonorable child."

 **That seems rather excessive,** Shadowmere comments, and I laugh. **D-do not laugh at me! Er, I mean…** He tosses his head and chuffs as though clearing his throat. **Do I amuse you? I am displeased, for that was not my intention.**

"No, don't worry," I assure my horse of darkness, "you're beautiful and broody." Shadowmere gives me a happy snuffle. "I was laughing at how stupid Ellis has to be to make the Greybeards get mad."

"Er, if Ma'dran understands correctly," my not-Khajiit friend says, "the… the _Dovahkiin_ must prevent the 'dire fate of Nirn,' Liar said, yes?"

I nod, because I did say that, yes, after the Greybeards said that. Yes.

"Then, Ma'dran supposes the Greybeards might be impatient for Nirn not to be destroyed."

"Hm…" I muse thoughtfully. "The dire fate of Nirn seems a bit dire," I realize, "especially since it's also affecting man and Mer…" I glance and my friends Ma'dran, Madanach, and Shadowmere. "You guys want to visit the scuffly scholars on the dredge of the world?"

"Ma'dran has no issue with this," Ma'dran says.

There is a moment of silence during which we wait for Madanach and Shadowmere to answer. Madanach is sleeping and Shadowmere is snorting fire at some curious rabbits hopping about nearby. _My rabbit's foot is starting to rot, so it might be good for me to get another._

"Kill things, but…" I sigh. "Rotten strawberries aren't rotten rabbits. Rotten maggots, though, are rotten luck." I turn to my cloaked and hooded friend. "Where are we going to rot those maggots of yours? The imps."

Ma'dran stares at our campfire in silence for a while. "Markarth," he eventually hisses.

"And why do you know that?" I inquire. "I do want to visit Markarth, though."

"Yes, Ma'dran would like to visit as well," Ma'dran murmurs. He makes a small sigh in the back of his throat that sounds like Madanach huffing at me. "As long as we make it there, however, Ma'dran does not mind delays. The prey will not leave."

"Oh, that's kind of them," I reply jovially. "Easier to kill them that way. Not like that Ellis sonofa gallivanting about the country's side and murdering my true loves."

"The prey is indeed fat and arrogant and unsuspecting," Ma'dran growls fiercely. "Both of our prey."

"And we can pounce on the rabbits like Madanach cats!" I cheer.

Ma'dran chuckles darkly. "Yes. Like cats, hm."

I open my mouth, prepared to talk about cats some more and inform Ma'dran that I wish he really were a Khajiit, but I get interrupted.

"You!" an echoing voice shouts around us. We jump, including me this time, and look around. As seems to often be the case, there is nothing around. "You! Mortals! Get my beacon! I want to show you my love, but I need my beacon!"

"Aw, shit," I mutter. "It's Meridia."

"Did you say something blasphemous, mortal?" the voice bellows.

There is a silence during which I yawn and pet Madanach's fur.

"That's what I thought! Now, none of you wonderful mortals can find my blasted shrine because some blasted mortal stole my blasted beacon! You're the first mortals who've visited since that filthy Malkoran stole from me, so I demand that you return the stolen thing!"

"No thanks!" I yell. The voice pauses.

"But… but I will give you my love," the voice echoes hesitantly.

"Sorry, but only one Daedra has my soul," I inform Meridia. "I don't want your love, but you do have a pretty shrine. Why can't people see it?"

"Because there is no blasted beacon!" Meridia screeches.

"But your shrine is a giant statue of a lady on top of a giant mountain," I return. "It's hard to miss." I point to rocks right about to the upwards of me. "In fact, I'm pointing to it right now and I hope you can appreciate what you have."

"You blasted mortal!" Meridia screams. "If I didn't love mortals so much, I would blast you from the blasted ground on which you sit!"

"You can do that, but you can't make your shrine sparkle?" I inquire.

"It is more complicated than that!" Meridia yells. "There's a defiler in my temple—"

"I thought I killed that guy in The Abandoned Shack," I mumble.

"—who must be murdered! Use the beacon to open the temple! Destroy the darkness! I will give you the power to defeat darkness once you return my beacon!"

"But if you want us to destroy the darkness," I reason, "wouldn't it be better to give us the power to defeat darkness _before_ we try to destroy the darkness?"

"That's not how it works!"

"Well, it's confusing and it sounds boring," I huff petulantly, "and I don't want to do it."

"You don't reject me! At the least, you accept my quest and then just ignore it!"

"That'd be rude," I retort. "I hate you!"

"Why, you… _ugh_!"

"Liar," I remind her as is only polite.

"Gah! I will find a reverent mortal who cares about love and, more importantly, _me_ ," Meridia huffs. "Begone from my shrine, trespassers!"

"We're not in your sh—"

"Begone! Leave! Shoo!"

Meridia is so stupid of a Daedra that she could be an Aedra, so she is no fun at all. I unhappily pull myself to my feet. I do not want to leave, but Meridia isn't worth my expensive time.

Ma'dran, as usual, waves off my offered hand in preference to standing on his own. I yawn in the general direction of Shadowmere, and he seems to understand my meaning. He stamps out our campfire, snorts a few flames to light my lantern with only minor burns to my hand, and follows Ma'dran and me for a couple feet. I determine that this is far enough from Meridia's mountain for her not to get pissy.

After all, I want to sleep. I'm tired. _It's been a fun day._


	13. One and One and One and One and One and

_guess_

 _who's_

 _back_

 _babyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy_

 _say thanks to **maaaxxxxxxxxxxxiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmssssssskkkkkkkkkk** for gettin me off my ass to write sommore_

* * *

13\. One and One and One and One and One and One and One and One and One and One and One and One and One

* * *

"Ma'am! Ma'am!"

Since I am not an elderly woman with a gaggle of children following me like quail babies with their cute little bobbing feather caps, I do not turn. Quail unfortunately do not like it when I try to pet them, but that is no reason not to try.

"Ma'am, please! Your horse is really fast! My legs are getting tired! So… so… _tired_ …"

I do have a horse, so I politely ask Shadowmere to slow down for a moment.

 **I have barely had the opportunity to gallivant the countryside!** he retorts with a whinny of distress. **I am a noble steed! I must galivant!**

"I know, I'm sorry," I reassure him, "but I'd really appreciate if you did anyway. I'll give you some berries I found on the road."

 **Fine,** Shadowmere huffs, and he reluctantly slows from a joyful gallop to a melancholy trot.

"Thank you, Shabby Muck," I say as I rummage through my pack to get him his desired produce.

I realize I ate those berries I promised, and they seemed to make me feel the cold even less than I usually do. It was a bit disarming, but fun. Instead, I find an only half-rotten guard and present it to my pony's face.

 **This is insufficient,** Shadowmere grumbles disappointedly. He still eats it, though.

"Ma'am! You! On the demon horse! The… bouncing tits! Shit, sorry! By the Nine, I'm exhausted…"

"Would you mind halting, Shudder Men?" I whisper into my beautiful stallion's ear. Shadowmere grumbles but slows to a stop. I look back to find a man sprinting towards me, red-faced and drenched in sweat. "Hi, I'm Bouncing Ti—sorry, Liar," I correct myself as is only polite as I wait for him to catch up.

The man finally stumbles to a stop right beside Shadowmere's left leg. He is gasping for breath like a beached fishy corpse with a breathing disorder, which is still flopping about even though it's dead and now it's turning blue and purple and bruising in its eyes and its eyes will pop out of its face and since its mouth is open, the eyes will plop into its mouth and then suddenly it's a cannibal!

"Don't eat your eyeballs," I tell the fish-man.

The man huffs raggedly. "I…" He huffs again. "Have…" He huffs again again. "A…" He huffs again again again. "Letter…" He huffs again again again again. "For…" He huffs again again again again again. "You…" He does some more huffing and gasping and wheezing and even some coughing after he spits out all those ridiculously short speeches.

While we wait, Ma'dran jumps off Shadowmere and begins darting about the nearby undergrowth. He likes chasing rabbits, I've noticed, so I have gotten many a lucky foot in the past couple days of vaguely southeast travel.

I yawn and pet Shadowmere's wonderful soft and silky flowing ebony locks. Madanach gets a bit jealous, so he meows and runs down from Shadowmere's head, across my arm, and perches on my shoulder. He yawns widely and nuzzles his soft little face against the side of my throat. I murmur to both that I love them. Shadowmere snorts a little fire at a mouse that then loses its soul along with its life, and Madanach falls asleep. _My babies love me so much._

The man finally does a couple more coughs and takes a deep breath as though to speak.

 **This creature is frustrating to me,** Shadowmere sniffs disdainfully. **With your permission, I would like to murder this beast and eat its soul. It shall be a petty soul, most likely, but it shall make a good snack.**

"He said he has a letter," I tell Shadowmere. "We should wait and see."

"I have a letter!" the man suddenly yells.

Shadowmere and I look at him, while Madanach only purrs against my throat. The man fumbles through his pockets, then pats himself down, and then finally checks his large satchel that is hanging from his shoulder.

"Aha!" he shouts as he pulls out a small piece of paper and holds it out to me.

Assuming he expects me to hold it for him, I reach towards him. _I hope this pamphlet at least has pictures._ Unfortunately, he is not close enough to Shadowmere that I can snatch it from his grip. I flap my hand about for a few seconds and then sigh, giving up.

I am about to tell Shadowmere to go ahead and murder the man and eat his soul, but Ma'dran distracts me by returning with his black coverings a bit disheveled. He is holding two rabbits, and he already has the feet cut off for me. I delightedly reach out my hands, and he drops the feet— _he must have cleaned them, because there's not a speck of blood!_ —into my waiting grip. The man ignores Ma'dran completely and remains frozen as a corpse tree rather than a fish.

Since my hands are busy shredding corn husks and using them to turn the feet into lovely pendants, Ma'dran plucks the paper from the man's hand. The man immediately slumps and sits down heavily right at Shadowmere's cute little feet.

Ma'dran reads the words aloud: " _I found the DB_ — _H_."

I throw out my previous rabbit foot, the rotten one I have hanging from my belt, and attach the one I have finished onto where it was. _It's beautiful. Like a leaping, frolicking deer._ That finished, I register Ma'dran's words.

"What the buck does that mean?" I inquire. "So many words."

"This one believes that the friend Hadvar has found the Dragonborn," Ma'dran says rather excitedly. "This is a courier from Hadvar."

"I didn't want him to write it in code!" I say hotly.

"It is not… well, Ma'dran can translate the code, if that pleases," Ma'dran replies kindly.

"That's kind of you," I effuse, clutching my rabbit foot to my chest. "What else?"

"Ah…" Ma'dran flips the paper over and then back again. "It seems there is nothing else. Perhaps more details—"

"Nope, sorry, nothing," the courier suddenly says from his seat on the ground.

"—will arrive soon," Ma'dran finishes as though the courier never spoke.

I frown. "Hm, well, I suppose we ought to just continue to the one and one and one and one and one and… some other ones… steps and wait for more couriers."

"That seems like a sensible—"

"Ma'am!" someone shouts. "Ma'am! On the horse!"

"—plan," Ma'dran continues as though the random person never spoke. "So long as we two keep—"

"Ma'am!" someone else shouts. "The lady with the—oh, wow, those are nice tits—er, the kitten!"

"—an eye out for more news from—"

"Ma'am!" someone other than someone and someone else shouts. "Young lady! Atop the horse!"

"—the road or from—"

"Ma'am!" someone other than someone and someone else and someone other than someone and someone else shouts. "You're pretty! You have the description! Ma'am!"

"—Hadvar," Ma'dran finally manages to hiss out. "Ma'dran does not appreciate so much—"

"Ma'am!" someone other than… all the others that shouted shouts. "Ma'am! Ma'am! Ma'am! Ma'am! Ma'am!"

"—interruption."

"Ma'am!" someone… blah, blah, blah shouts.

"I'm not some old fucking maid!" I yell as a series of pairs of footsteps dashes towards me. "I am _Liar_ ," I essentially scream as is only polite.

 **I am Shadowmere!** my horsie adds. **Fear me!**

"And he is Gallow Deer!" I audibly add. "Fear him!"

Madanach meows loudly.

"—you!"

"—for you!"

"—letter for you!"

"—a letter for you!"

"—have a letter for you!"

"I have a letter for you!"

Six men that, in my opinion, could be twins to that one man who is still sitting near Shadowmere's hooves of darkness, run up and shout the same sentence in a nice round. They should learn to harmonize better, though. Even a tone-deaf slaughterfish would have slaughtered those fish. _Wait, weren't the fishes already dead?_

The sextuplets are standing in a nice line all holding out little papers at me. Ma'dran steps around the first courier and hesitantly takes the first letter. He reads aloud: " _DB with Dolphin — H_ ". The courier, relieved of his burden, falls onto the ground in a dead faint. He is not dead, though, because there is unfortunately no soul for Shadowmere to munch upon.

"More code," I sigh. "Well? What's it mean?"

Ma'dran squints at the paper and turns it about for a few moments. "Ma'dran is… unsure," he eventually states. He hands me the paper, so I roll it up and try to shove it into the sawed-off end of the rabbit foot hanging from my belt. "Perhaps the next missive will clarify."

Ma'dran turns to the next courier, who is still holding his paper out to me and blatantly ignoring Ma'dran, as are all the others.

Ma'dran takes the paper and reads it out: " _Sorry, I meant Delphine — H."_ Ma'dran and I both stare at this new paper for a moment. "That… clears things up somewhat?" Ma'dran says hesitantly. "This Delphine is… a person?" As this courier wanders over to a tree and begins staring at it blankly, I take the paper with the words and try to make it join the other within the rabbit's exposed flesh of the foot.

The courier who had fainted on the ground suddenly gasps and sits up. "Nope, sorry, nothing," he says hoarsely before toppling back onto the cobbled road.

Ma'dran nervously takes the next message. Even I am getting a bit unnerved at this point. _Did Hadvar hire a cult?_

The fourth letter reads: " _I mean that the DB is with Delphine — H_." The fourth courier walks over to a large rock and sits on it. He stares at the sky thoughtfully.

"Nope, sorry, nothing," the third and fourth couriers say at the same time.

 **These repetitive mouse-children are testing my patience,** Shadowmere says, and I have to agree with him. Ma'dran, however, soldiers on. He hands me the fourth missive and grabs the fifth.

It reads: " _It looks like they're traveling somewhere together — H_."

The fifth courier squints and then begins walking slowly eastward. "Nope, sorry, nothing," he mumbles dazedly.

Ma'dran and I watch him for a moment. I am waiting for something to happen—maybe a bear to jump screaming out of the undergrowth and stealthily maul his face to death—because this seems like an important moment. Nothing happens.

Nothing. Sorry. Nope, sorry, nothing happens.

I feel my body shiver involuntarily, but Ma'dran squares his shoulders and snatches the last two missives at once. " _I think they are going to Kynesgrove — H_ ," Ma'dran reads. " _They are indeed going to Kynesgrove — H_."

He silently hands me the final pieces of paper, and I breathe out a sigh of relief as I shove them up the rabbit's foot. The final two couriers turn and start walking, but they accidentally walk into each other and fall over.

"Nope, sorry—"

"Nope—"

"—nothing," the seventh mumbles after his head cracks onto the cobblestones. I think he might be bleeding from that head of his, but I look away before I can really see.

"—sorry, nothing," the sixth one finishes. He managed to stay on his feet and only totters a bit before turning and immediately tripping on the first courier, who is still sitting near Shadowmere's beautiful hooves. That makes the sixth courier fall face-first, and I hear his nose break.

There is a long moment of silence.

 **Are we to gallop to this Kynesgrove, then?** Shadowmere finally inquires impatiently.

"I suppose we ought to go murder Ellis, yeah," I agree thoughtfully. I hold out a hand to Ma'dran, and he takes it, using me to heave himself onto Shadowmere's back. Madanach wakes up and dashes up Shadowmere's neck to rest between the horse's ears, as is the kitten's custom.

 **Hold on tight, tiny one,** Shadowmere affectionately snuffles to Madanach. Madanach purrs loudly, inspiring a happy twitch of the ears from Shadowmere.

"So… where's Cornrows?" I ask the air. Perhaps one of the seven couriers will know, but they do not speak at all.

"Kynesgrove is but a few miles east of our current location," Ma'dran interjects helpfully. "It is a dragon's resting place."

"Well that's just grand!" I exclaim. "This bird has both the stones!"

I direct Shadowmere east, and then Ma'dran tells me to turn in the opposite direction and says _that's_ east.

I direct Shadowmere that's east, and the demon horse happily gallops in that direction. We are going too fast to conversate, but I do mention in passing that the trees are quite thick in the forest through which we are cutting. In the process of mentioning in passing, I swallow a few tree leaves and a spiderweb that smack me in the face.

Suddenly, I hear what I can only describe as a yowl mixed with a hiss. Shadowmere halts, worried that Madanach has been harmed somehow, so I quickly pick up the kitten and inspect him. He gives me a small noise of dissatisfaction from being disrupted from his perch but is otherwise unharmed. I glance about hurriedly, ready to save the kitten in distress, and then catch the sight of a pair of fuzzy ears from the corner of my eye.

No fuzzy ears shall sneak up on me, so I turn around as swiftly as I can without falling off Shadowmere. In doing so, I accidentally kick Ma'dran in the throat and he topples to the ground with the same yowl-hiss. The fuzzy ears drop to the ground as well.

Ma'dran pushes himself into a sitting position and his fuzzy ears twitch. His pretty catlike eyes are wide with fear or surprise, and he looks around confusedly. His hood is no longer on his face but is probably stuck on a branch somewhere back the way we came. Other than two fuzzy cat ears, Ma'dran's face is mostly white and pale gray fur and splattered with black markings. He has some auburn patches scattered about as well and a double plait of dark hair.

"You have cat!" I gasp in delight. "You're not a blob of darkness! There's cat!"

Ma'dran slowly picks himself up from the ground. "Yes," he admits quietly. "Ma'dran is… sorry… for hiding."

I frown at him. "You're right there," I say matter-of-factly. "You're real bad at hiding."

"No, for not admitting that this one is Khajiit," he explains. "You have been kind to Ma'dran, but there is always… fear."

I stare at him wide-eyed. "Wait…" I look him up and down, trying to take in his fuzzy face and fuzzy ears and kitty eyes while I take in his words. "You're a _Khajiit_?" I just about shriek. Ma'dran winces. "You said specifically that you _weren't_ a Khajiit!" I remind him. "You're a not-Khajiit!"

"Ma'dran is actual-Khajiit," he says sheepishly, which is strange since cat jilts eat sheep or something. _No, I'm thinking of Argonians. Keerava mentioned something about Argonians serving live meat once,_ I remember _._ "Khajiit are not permitted into Nord cities, so I was disguised."

"Eye?" I repeat. "Is that one of your friends?"

"No, it is… I. Ma'dran."

"But you're Ma'dran."

Ma'dran sighs and pulls off his gloves, revealing white hands with similar black markings and long, sharp claws at the end of each finger. _Now_ that _is an idea. Instead of attaching my mace to my hand, I should just hammer some nails into each finger and use them as weapons._

"Khajiit as individuals are… Ma'dran," he begins with a certain note of longing in his voice. "The name. Khajiit as a member of a clan, a caravan, of the entire race… that is 'I'."

"But you're Ma'dran," I remind him.

"Indeed," he replies. I am still confused. "Ma'dran went into the Solitude city for his caravan, so therefore _I_ went into the Solitude city. Ma'dran is traveling with you, but _I_ shall avenge my caravan."

"...So…" I shut my eyes tightly and shake my head back and forth in an attempt to get the word-pieces lined up all properly. "That didn't work," I tell him.

Ma'dran gives me a throaty chuckle. "Never mind it, Liar," he says. "This one's name is Ma'dran but may also refer to himself as 'I'. It is simply how I speak."

I nod. Liar nods. Lie nod-s. "Alright," I say even though I am still confused to Oblivion to Mundus to Sovengarde to Nirn and back to Mundus and then here for a quick rest stop before heading back to Oblivion and then to myself. "So, you lied about being 'I'?"

"This one lied about being Khajiit," Ma'dran corrects me.

"Because 'I' aren't allowed into cities?"

"Yes, Khajiit cannot enter the cities of Nords," he says.

I laugh at his silliness and pat Shadowmere as I do so. "Oh, well I'm not a Nord, you silly Khajiit-eye," I inform him. "I would let you into a city if it were my city, because I'm not a Nordrim."

"You are… not angry?" he inquires warily.

"I'm Liar," I correct him as is only polite.

Ma'dran blinks, his slitted eyes staring at me with a somewhat dazed expression. "This one thanks you," he says slowly. "Ma'dran… does not know what to say."

"You just said a good amount," I point out as I offer him my hand again. "Also, we'll have to get you some new clothes."

"Ah. Yes." Ma'dran places his hand into mine, and I inwardly sigh happily at how soft his fur is. "That might—"

"I wasn't going to say anything because I'm polite," I interrupt, "but those shroud-robes make you look like a rotten potato and it really doesn't go with this badass image I've got here."

I gesture to myself, Shadowmere, and Madanach. I flex sexily to emphasize my strength and beauty, Shadowmere whinnies and snorts fire to terrify local wildlife, and Madanach yawns to show off his cute little needle teeth. I pull Ma'dran onto Shadowmere again, and Madanach trots off Shadowmere's head to curl between Ma'dran's ears. The Khajiit's ears twitch, and so do Madanach's.

"Don't worry," I tell my actual-Khajiit friend genially. "We'll get you outfitted soon enough and then you'll fit in like a sword thumb!"

"Ma'dran again offers his humble thanks," Ma'dran murmurs, his head bowed slightly. "It is a relief to be honest with friends."

"And we are friends!" I realize.

"This one would agree."

 **And this one,** Shadowmere pipes up. **Well, 'friend' may be a bit too strong,** he hastily corrects himself. **I am a lone stallion, after all, and I hold affection towards no one. And yet... I do… perhaps… enjoy the present company. A-and the plentiful delights to eat.**

Madanach adds a meow of what I take to be agreement, and, close to tears now, I shuffle through my pouches. I give Shadowmere a bundle of hay partially-eaten by me that he happily munches on, Madanach a rabbit foot neither eaten nor rotten that he happily munches on, and Ma'dran a trio of earrings that I made from wolf and saber cat teeth tied to gold hoops that I stole from people sometime along the way. Ma'dran does not munch on his gift like my other two friends, but he does purr in approval and begin slipping them through the holes pierced into his fuzzy ears. I am actually rather grateful he did not eat them, in case he broke all of his teeth. _When I'm a_ dovah _I will have tooth-fangs as well._

 **I shall gallop to our destination once I know where that destination resides,** Shadowmere informs me, so I turn to Ma'dran.

"Lead on, Ma'dran," I say before basking in the fact that my sentence rhymed.

Ma'dran murmurs his assent and directs Shadowmere into the direction that I think we were going before when Ma'dran's head fell off. That would be awful, though, because then Madanach would not have a place to sleep other than my head or Shadowmere's head or various other places or my shoulder. That just would not be fair to my little kitten baby with his fuzzy face and needle teeth.

With Shadowmere as our transportation and Ma'dran as our guide, getting to Kynesgrove is a puddle of pudding pie. When we arrive, we sit on a log at the edge of the clearing and build a nice fire.

Then, we wait.

"So..." I look around while wiggling my legs up and down.

This place is rather pretty, what with all the green and grass and the possibility of _dovah_ bones buried underneath my feet, but there is nothing happening. The _dovah_ is not alive yet, after all, and no one else is here other than the people I normally have with me—actually, these people are more animal than person, but I don't think that matters in this situation. What is important is that I am bored and I want to kill my mortal enemy and befriend the immortal _dovah_ sleeping in the ground below.

"Did Hadvar mention when Ellis would get here?" I ask. "I'm..." I wiggle my legs up and down more furiously. " _Bored_!"

 **I do agree,** Shadowmere agrees. **I admit that the grass here is delectable, but the lack of flavor variety has... well, I am also currently rather bored.**

Madanach gives me a loud meow of what I believe to be agreement as well before falling asleep.

Ma'dran sighs in what is also probably agreement. "If Liar would like," Ma'dran says, "this one will keep watch if you wish to explore."

I immediately jump to my feet, dislodging Madanach from his perch upon my head. "Explore!" I repeat in a much louder tone of voice. Madanach repeats his meow but in a much more irritated tone of voice. He jumps off my head and darts over to Ma'dran, who graciously allows Madanach into his lap. I turn swiftly to Shadowmere. "You want to go with me, right?"

 **I will grace you with my presence,** is his dispassionate reply, but I can sense happiness in his tone.

"Ma'dran has been wondering for a while now," my friend says slowly, "but... does your horse... _speak_ to you?"

I nod. "Absolutely. He's a good boy." Shadowmere chuffs in agreement.

"Ah," he says in a mild tone. Without any visible reaction, he returns to petting Madanach.

Since adventure seems to fall into my lap without me seeking it out, I close my eyes and walk. I refuse to seek, but that does not mean I have to hide. After all, there is no Daedra of adventures falling into laps and luggings can't be boozers. Thankfully, I am not drunk nor do I expect to become drunk in the near future, but booze can be an adventure, I suppose. When I hear nothing except the sound of Shadowmere trotting off presumably to find more yummies, I realize that nothing can fall into my lap because I am not sitting down.

Without further ado, I make to flop down onto the ground, only to be interrupted by a loud, unintelligible yell. The perfect strength in my legs allows me to keep myself from falling backwards without even having to draw my mace and slam it into the dirt for balance. I pretend not to notice that, even though I do not fall backwards, I do topple sideways.

"Ouch, my arm!" I say instinctively even though I can feel no pain in my arm at all. _Not much of an ouch, that._

"Better than cooking yourself without any seasoning," someone says, presumably the owner of the loud, unintelligible yell.

Now that my arm is done being ouched even though it really was not ever ouched at all, I sniffle a little and open my eyes to meet my new adventure. Adventure, it seems, is a Breton woman wearing common clothes and her hands placed delicately on her hips. She raises an eyebrow and points to my right. I look thataway to find a crackling fire that I would have sat on had the Breton adventurer not warned me.

"Bretventure," I tell her.

She crosses her arms and studies me. "If you're speaking some weird language, tell me now."

"Language is a weird one," I agree wisely, "but speaking is the same thing as telling. That's a telling sign of..." I pause, unsure what it is a telling sign of, but I really need to finish up this pun before it goes stale. "Of... of..."

"Oven roast," the Bretventure supplies.

"Of-en roast," I whisper, awed. "That's a good one!" I praise her, and she smirks. I suddenly realize that I am rather hungry since I have not eaten all day. "That's a telling sign of-en roast," I repeat to myself. "I am a bit peckish," I admit. "I'm also Liar," I add as is only polite.

"Eola," Breoladventure replies. She holds out a heavenly-smelling piece of meat that looks suspiciously like a human arm. "Just finished cooking this. Want a taste?"

Sorry, I don't eat animals," I say kindly. "Don't hold back on my account, though. Feel free to dig in!"

Breoladventure shrugs and takes a large bite out of the part that where the elbow would have been if this were a human arm. Breolad— _gods, her name was Eola, which is much easier_ —suddenly gasps and jiggles the arm back and forth so that the wrist seems to be gesturing furiously at me. I reflexively grasp the hand and shake it in greeting.

"This isn't animal meat," Eola mumbles around her food. A couple half-chewed bits fall from her mouth as I am still holding the hand.

"Well, it doesn't really look like soup," I tell her uncertainly. "Is this... a new kind of soup?" I consider leaning forwards to lick the soup, but I do not want to take Eola's meal without permission.

"No, no, it's human!" Eola says cheerfully. "Humans aren't animals, right?"

I tilt my head as far to the side as it can go so that it rests against my shoulder. "Hm... you're _sure_ it's human?" I ask.

She takes another large bite and nods. "Killed her myself," she says. "Pure-blood Nord and well-fed to boot. Her husband was a bit stringy, though."

"And no animals were harmed in the making of this dinner?" I make absolutely sure, and she nods again.

"Cross my raw, bloody heart," she said gravely. "I don't eat animals either, just humans and the occasional Khajiit, if they count. But damn, I end up picking fur out of my teeth for days. Argonians taste like sewage, to be honest, and Mer are good enough, but they're more sinew than flesh."

"I won't eat Khajiit or sewage," I inform her, "but I do appreciate your love of animals."

"Eh, more my hatred of any food other than human," Eola says casually. "Namira's a fan of my appetite, so I also get some special powers out of the deal."

"Namira?" I ask, surprised. "Do you also eat slugs, then?"

Eola shakes her head and makes the disembodied hand hover over the fire as though warming itself. "I like eating my humans with some salt," she explains. "Ever tried salting a slug?" I nod sadly. "Exactly."

Eola stares at me for a moment, then suddenly whips a knife out of her bag and chops off the hand's middle finger. She quickly moves the arm so that the hand catches the finger. I clap enthusiastically and she grins, a little piece of skin caught in her left canine.

"Here," she says, offering me the middle finger. "Sometimes, I pretend my food's flipping me off so then I just eat the shit out of the middle finger. That actually did happen with a living guy once, haha. You can have this one."

I grab the finger and pop it into my mouth without hesitation. I chew furiously for a while, feeling the bones crunch uncomfortably against my teeth, but the flavor really is quite exceptional. My father always told me not to swallow bones, so quickly pull them out of my mouth and pocket them in case I need to make some pretty jewelry. The fingernail is also a bit tasteless, so I spit that out too. The rest, however, is absolutely delectable.

"This is absolutely delectable," I comment with my mouth full. "How'd you season this?"

Eola's smile stretches even wider as she waves the arm about. "I'll teach you all the recipes of Namira _if_ you bring me a special ingredient."

"I have some berries," I offer graciously. "And some produce."

"No, I need something a little more... _unique_ ," she says. "A priest of Arkay might do it."

I sigh thoughtfully, but no one comes to mind. Or to body, for that matter. "I don't have one of those," I admit. "I could become a priest, if you'd like, but I'm not a fan of Aedra. I'd do it for those recipes, though." I look through my pouches just in case there is a priest of Arkay in there somewhere. "I have some sprigs of lavender."

"Ahh, no, no, I've just been craving priest of Arkay recently," Eola says wistfully. "Look, these are the sacred recipes of Namira, and I can't just give them out to anybody, especially since you're not part of the coven."

"I'd love to be part of a coven!" I plead. "It sounds like oven! Remember those oven roasts?"

"You have any good sacrifices?" Eola asks as she bites another finger off her disembodied lunch. "I can't just let you into the sacred coven of Namira."

I think hard about what possible sacrifices I have lying about. I think harder than I have thought in a long time, because I really think I want to be part of this oven coven of roasted Namira.

 _Where in Namira's name can I find a human that no one would care died and who would be easily replaceable in the world and whose death would not affect me whatsoever? What kind of person would fit that description, especially one near me?_

"I have a letter for you!" someone screams as they run towards me as fast as they can.

It is another one of those twins. There are eight now. _How quickly do they replicate themselves?_ The courier trips and lands hard on his face, ripping up his entire cheek on a rock and knocking a couple teeth out, and then struggles to his feet. His eyes wide with pain, he places a note in my palm.

"There's a new museum opening in Dawnstar," he gasps out as blood streams down his face and out of his mouth. "Please, go to Dawnstar… please…"

"Ew, no," I reply, and the man starts sobbing.

"Nope, sorry, nothing," he whimpers. "This job isn't worth it. Divines, I hate my life."

Unlike the others, this letter is all folded up, so there is extra work involved. I already hate this letter. I open it and stare. "Oh, there's a new museum opening in Dawnstar," I realize. "Ew, no."

I toss the paper into the fire in which I almost killed my unseasoned arm. The paper misses the fire and smacks the courier gently in the face instead. It sticks to the blood and thankfully covers the disgusting sight from my innocent gaze.

With a sudden gasp of realization, I point at the courier who currently cannot see because of the paper covering his face. "I could give you this!" I say hopefully. "Could I join the oven then?"

Eola uses the half-eaten arm to stroke her chin. "Courier's not bad, I suppose. They're usually damn healthy, but I like fat... I suppose I could always fry the meat in some butter..." She sighs despondently and shakes her head. "No, no, that's not good enough for your first Namiric sacrifice. I'm sorry." Eola looks to me with sympathy in her eyes. "Look, you seem like a promising recruit, so feel free to come back to visit once you find a better sacrifice."

"Oh, wait!" I shout. "Wait, wait, wait!" Eola jumps a bit in surprise but does follow my instructions. "I have seven more couriers."

Eola's eyes widen, and she actually drops her arm—not her arm, the arm that she was holding which is presumably someone else's arm because Eola has two arms at the moment and that's probably all the arms she's ever had attached to her body—and gapes at me. I can see saliva starting to dribble from her lips, and then she clasps both her hands in front of her chin.

"Eight couriers?" she repeats excitedly. I nod. " _Eight?_ " I nod again. "Namira be praised!" she yells in delight. "We'll eat like queens for a _week_!"

"Does... does that mean I'm a part of your oven coven?" I ask, barely daring to hope.

"Abso-bloody-lutely!" she exclaims. "We haven't gotten a feast this big since that Stormcloak camp passed by a few months back."

 **I heard shouts of jubilation,** Shadowmere's voice echoes in my head. I whip my gaze around to find him trotting towards Eola and me. He whinnies and tosses his beautiful mane. **I wish to be a part of this even though I am a steed of the abyssal darkness who revels in the agony of others rather than pathetic jubilation.**

I bounce up and down. "Well, you're in luck, Shabba Mabba!"

 **…Alright, this name thing is starting to get insulting.**

"We get to murder and eat those eight couriers that won't leave and then Eola here will teach me how to cook them like a proper _dovah_!"

"What's _dovah_ got—"

"It'll be wonderful and painful for all the couriers involved!" I finish. The courier with the museum paper over his face of gaping wounds starts crying harder.

 **That would explain the shouts of jubilation,** Shadowmere muses. **I agree with this course of action.** He gives a whinny of jubilation so that we're all just jubicial.

"So, what brings a pretty little morsel like you out here?" Eola asks me with a wink tossed in my direction.

I preen and wriggle happily. "That's kind of you," I say, flattered.

"You're quite a dish," Eola adds.

"That's so kind of you," I say, more flattered.

"I just want to eat you up."

"That's so very kind of you," I say, thoroughly flattered.

"I have a lot more, but I should probably ration them."

In awe, I gape at her, awestruck. "I can't wait to dip my bread into the oil and vinegar of your wisdom!"

"Now you're getting it," Eola says smugly. "You'll fit right in, Liar."

"I'm fitting into so many places lately," I cheer. "I feel so fit."

"Oh, you _are_."

I smile coyly and point at the crying courier with the paper over his face. "Should we kill him now or later?" I ask.

"Eh, they're better fresh," Eola replies. "Just truss him up like a turkey and we'll bring him to the murder cave where I have the recipe book as well. If we get all the fillets and flesh sticks transported, I'll give you a copy."

"Are there pictures?" I ask as I use a spare pair of pants to tie up the courier. "I'm better with pictures." I shove the paper into his mouth to work as a gag.

"There are some," Eola muses, "but I can add more. Blood makes a pretty reliable ink, and we'll have lots of that soon."

"Would you really do that for me?" I gasp, flattered.

Eola nods. "I'm game. Since… we brought game… No, that's not very good."

"It tastes better than it sounds."

"Not bad, not bad," Eola praises me.

I smile proudly and turn to Shadowmere. "Would you terribly mind carrying the courier or couriers?"

 **I am no pack mule,** Shadowmere snorts, **and yet I would infinitely prefer thousands of bundles of firewood weighing me down than dirtying my integrity by transporting a human.**

"What? But you carry me around."

 **You are my master.**

Touched, I sniffle and wipe tearful eyes. "I love you too," I tell him.

 **I have allowed others because you asked me to transport them and they are not... completely worthless and annoying like this one here _._ **Shadowmere tosses his head imperiously and digs his hoof into the dirt a couple times.

"You could eat their souls," I add hopefully.

 **Hmm… I suppose… I could do so... in return for souls.**

"And you could cook them with fire."

 **I would enjoy that.**

"Then it's a deal?"

 **I suppose it is.**

I turn to Eola, who has been watching patiently and munching on some wrist meat. "My horsie has agreed to help carry a courier or two if you don't mind him eating their souls and maybe lighting a few of them on fire."

Eola nods, so I smack the courier in the forehead so that he collapses unconscious. With a huff, I hoist him onto Shadowmere's back and give Shadowmere a head of lettuce in thanks for helping out.

"I'm a fan of using every part of the human," Eola says, "so that sounds great to me." We follow Shadowmere as he trots back towards Ma'dran and the scattered couriers. Eola takes another bite of the arm, and then waves it at me. "Let's go grab the other succulent piggies and I'll introduce you to my coven. You can bring friends if you'd like—not to eat, unless that's what you want.

"I'll ask what Ma'dran thinks," I say. "Madanach too."

"Madanach? The old Reach-King?"

"No, my cat."

"Oh, that makes more sense."

Ma'dran is where I had left him earlier and Madanach is on his lap, sleeping soundly, while Ma'dran aimlessly pets his head. They both straighten up when they see me, and Ma'dran subtly draws a dagger at the sight of Eola. Madanach has no such qualms, as he runs over uses his Sharp Claws to climb all the way up to my face. He is getting better at not losing his grip and making long, deep scratches down my skin until he steadies himself and continues all the way onto the top of my head. He twirls a few times, sits down, and meows loudly.

"Hello, cat," Eola says.

"That's a rude slur to Khajiit," I tell her unhappily, but she points at Madanach. "That's a kitten," I correct her.

"Hello, kitten," Eola says. She waves the arm, which has very little flesh left on it, at Ma'dran. "You must be Ma'dran."

"Yes," Ma'dran says, still suspicious. "You smell of blood and death."

"Haha, was it the arm that gave it away?" she laughs jovially.

"No..." Ma'dran studies her carefully, flipping the knife in his clawed hand. "Decay and rot," he amends. He jumps to his feet and backs away slightly. "Namira," he hisses.

"Not me, but thanks for the compliment!"

"She's just a priestess of Namira," I inform my friend.

"The Mistress of Decay is a dangerous Prince to affiliate oneself with," he replies nervously. "Why are you here?"

"Eola is my newest friend," I chastise him. "We're having lunch together. You wanna join?"

"I have the highest reverence for Namira," Ma'dran says sincerely to Eola, "but this one must politely decline your offer."

"Don't worry, I understand," Eola says cheerfully. "Namira is always partial towards Khajiit. She won't be offended."

"Ma'dran thanks you," he murmurs, his head slightly lowered. "Please offer my deepest respect to your Prince."

"I absolutely will," she replies. "Will you help us round up the annoying couriers like lambs to the slaughter?"

"Of course," Ma'dran says. "I would be glad to."

I dump the captured courier near the fire, first making sure he is trussed up nice and tight like a slaughtered turkey, and then lead the way into the forest. "It'll be a friendship excursion!" I cheer. "Deadly hide-and-seek!"

"What other kind is there?" Eola laughs. "I love hunting for my dinner."


	14. Flesh Fans for Fleshed Fans

_it's been a while! ehm, we'll see how much time I have to write, but i_ do _wanna keep up the story *cries* im so dam busy_

 _anyhow, I went through the whole story nd revamped it some, added some conversations, changed some formatting stuff, but nothing plotty that'd require y'all to go back n reread. if ya got a notif for two new chapters, that's cuz i split one super long chap into two (6 into 6 and 7, I think?)_

 _sorry you hafta scroll down to the bottom of the chapter every time you need the dovahzul translations, but dovahzul is just so damn fun to write that i can't help it_

* * *

14\. Flesh Fans for Fleshed Fans

* * *

"It looks we're about to dig a mass grave," I comment as I watch Shadowmere balance eight bodies on his back. He has a fun little tottering pyramid of depressed-looking unconscious couriers stacked up just like a fun little tottering pyramid of depressed-looking unconscious couriers.

"Oh, I've dug dozens of mass graves," Eola says dismissively, then chews her lip thoughtfully. "Actually, that's not true," she admits. "I've _considered_ digging dozens of mass graves, but I never need to since I don't leave any evidence."

"Oh, really?" I gasp as I poke a falling arm back into place. "What do you do with the corpses? I always get blood everywhere and sometimes there are brains and intestines and bits of bone too, and it's just an ew-y, ew-y mess."

"Every part of the human body is usable," Eola explains. "You can eat just about everything, but brains also make nice pillow stuffing and you can use intestines for decorations or instruments. Skulls make great mugs, and have you ever cooked eyeball and ligament soup in a roasted stomach?" She sighs happily as she licks her lips. "Blissful."

"You'd make such a wonderful housewife," I remark just as dreamily while I consider how nice it would be to not have to do anything because someone else would be doing it all for me. On the other hand, having a housewife would require both a house and a wife. I have neither, unless I can count Shadowmere as my home and Madanach as my wife. _I think I can..._ "It'd be super duper dipper dapper nice," I decide.

"I'm warming up to the idea," Eola agrees, "but we should at least go out for dinner first."

"That's lucky," I realize. I gesture wildly to the couriers. "We're going to dinner right now!"

"That's true... Earwax would work for candles," Eola muses. "Hm. Dip leaves in blood and suddenly we've got rose petals…"

"Ew, no blood," I state firmly. "I disagree with the concept of blood, no exceptions."

"Dragons have blood," she points out.

"Well _that's_ obviously fine," I huff.

"So there are exceptions."

" _Dovahhe_ are an exception to exceptions, so there are no exceptions."

"Okay, but what about—Oh, we're here!"

'Here' is apparently a cave that leads into a mountain. I gladly follow Eola into the mountain, Shadowmere at my side and Madanach on my head. _Shadowmere on my side and Madanach at my head…_

 **This cave smells like death,** Shadowmere comments. **I do enjoy death.**

"I'm happy to hear that," I tell Shadowmere with a smile. "That'll make it much easier to kill all these couriers!"

 **I would have no trouble doing so regardless.**

I coo and give my beautiful horsie a little kiss that he pretends to dislike. "You are so wonderful and amazing and beautiful and brave and deadly," I praise him.

 **I do agree,** Shadowmere does agree, embarrassed. **Now hush, as there are others watching this unseemly display of affection.** I look around, and there are in fact others. I recognize none of them and they seem rather surprised to see me. A few stand up with carving knives in hand.

Eola waves her arms peaceably. "They're with me," she says, and a few relax. "Liar here wants to join our coven and she brought _eight_ sacrifices." Eola gestures to the fun tottering pyramid of depressed-looking unconscious couriers atop Shadowmere, and all the people crowded at the large dining table gasp.

"That's a lot of food," one of them whispers loudly.

"That's a _lot_ of food," another one adds.

" _That's_ a lot of food," someone else says.

"That's a lot of _food_ ," another pipes up.

"That's _a_ lot _of_ food!" I cheer. "I hope Namira likes it!"

"Oh, this is more than adequate for a sacrifice," a raspy voice echoes throughout the entire cave. Since both Sheogorath and Meridia pulled this trick, I can only assume it is another Daedric Prince. Since I am in Namira's cave with Namira's coven, I can only assume that the voice belongs to Namira. "Place the sacrifices onto my altar and perform their last rites… er, by killing them. You don't actually need to say any words."

"Sounds fun," I agree. I graciously allow Shadowmere to lead the way, and he trots to the back of the cave, knocking over chairs and accidentally trampling a coven member to death as he does so. No one seems to mind, though, as they are all staring at the fun little tottering pyramid of depressed-looking unconscious couriers.

I join Shadowmere at a large stone slab that I assume is the altar and then begin the grueling process of lining each courier side by side upon it. I end up having to stack them into a fun pyramid again because the altar is not large enough for all of them, and I only drop one by accident. His head cracks open and he dies, so I hope he counts as a sacrifice.

"That's one sacrifice," Namira says excitedly from Somewhere. _My hope has become a reality!_ "Oh, you are such a tease! Just kill them all at once!"

Shadowmere whinnies and then breathes a massive plume of fire onto the seven remaining couriers. My arm gets scalded so badly that I can see the bone, and another coven member gets cooked to death along with the couriers. Distracted by the pretty flames, I casually dump some healing magic into my maimed arm, and it is probably as good as new in seconds. The flames, however, are entrancing and much more important than a silly arm.

"Easy now, my friend!" Eola calls out. She is standing next to me and watching the couriers with an intent gaze. "A little less heat," she says, and Shadowmere's fire grows less intense. "Good," she praises my smart, beautiful, wonderful horsie. "Okay… keep that up just a little more…" Shadowmere follows instructions even though he seems to be tiring from all the breathing fire. "That's good," Eola finally says. "Don't want to crisp them."

Shadowmere's flames peter out, and he stomps his feet happily as he begins absorbing the swarm of souls trying to escape. I trap a few of them into soul gems as Shadowmere grows full, and everyone seems satisfied.

"Bloody brilliant!" Namira shrieks from around us all. "I'm going to make you my Champion for this, girl. What's your name?"

"Me?" I ask the voice from Somewhere.

"Yes, you!"

"I'm Liar," I answer as is only polite, "but I only killed one. My horsie killed one and one and one and one and one and one and one couriers and one and one coven members which is nine people all together. He also ate their souls and will happily eat their flesh."

"Oho," Namira says. "You are brave to refuse me, mortal, but I see your point. I sense as well that you are already promised to another Prince. Is that true?"

"I'm a one Daedra kind of girl," I admit bashfully.

"Laudable," Namira acknowledges. "Now, valiant steed, what is your name?"

 **I am Shadowmere, my Lady Prince,** the valiant steed replies arrogantly. **I do enjoy murdering and eating souls and even flesh.**

"Shadowmere," Namira repeats. "Shadowmere, you are a fearless and deadly stallion whom I trust to emulate everything that I stand for. Will you be my Champion?"

 **I would be honored,** Shadowmere says in an uncharacteristically humble tone.

"Er… who is Namira talking to?" Eola whispers into my ear. "No one's answering her."

"Shadda Moo," I whisper back. "He's talking in his mind. I can understand him, and I suppose Namira can too."

"Oh, wow," Eola gasps. "I thought you were just talking to a smart horse; I didn't think he actually replied."

"Of course he replies," I huff. "He's a beautiful and talented murder pony from the depths of Oblivion who rides upon hooves of darkness and snorts fire."

"You're right," Eola says. "Him talking isn't that weird in comparison."

"I have a new Champion!" Namira cries joyfully, and the cave full of people fills with cheers. "Shadowmere, I charge you with killing and eating as many living or decomposing things as possible!"

 **I would be delighted!** Shadowmere whinnies.

"Sha-dow-mere! Sha-dow-mere!" the crowd begins to chant, and Sha-dow-mere stamps his hooves of darkness and tosses his mane. "Sha-dow-mere! Sha-dow-mere!"

"Sham-rock-ear!" I join in with the chant. "Ma'am-mock-peer!" Madanach meows loudly as well, happy for Shadowmere or perhaps simply offended by the noise while he is trying to sleep.

"Now, feast!" Namira cries, and the coven roars with approval.

Without further ado, Eola shakes her sleeves until a half dozen knives fall out. She grabs the two sharpest and flips them in the air expertly. I gasp in awe as she slices up the couriers with lightning speed, carving them up with the ease of a master. One by one, the couriers are separated into neat steaks and delicately arranged body parts. When she is done, Eola slips the knives back up her sleeves and then pushes up her shirt to reveal an arsenal of spices wrapped around her stomach. Her hands seem to blur as she grabs jar after jar, sprinkling each portion with an array of spices that create a heavenly aroma which makes my stomach growl.

Judging by the increase in cheering, the coven members are growing excited as well. They begin holding up their plates and Eola tosses slabs of meat at them with unerring accuracy, most of the time not even glancing up as she does so. Finally, when each member of the coven is happily digging in, Eola replaces all her spices and swiftly spins to face me. She is holding a plate with a cooked, bloodless human heart carved into the shape of a non-anatomical heart. I gasp, delighted, and demurely accept her offering. Eola grins widely and brushes her hands against one another.

"Eat up, you succulent little thing," Eola says cheerfully as Shadowmere begins eating a courier's hacked up leg.

"I couldn't!" I gasp. "Not unless you have something to eat as well!"

"Seeing such a delightful morsel enjoying my home-cooked meal is all the sustenance I need," Eola purrs.

"You are my favorite person," I tell her gravely as I prepare to nibble upon my dinner.

"I'd love to be your favorite _food_ ," Eola replies silkily. "Maybe I'll let you take a nibble or two."

"As long as I get to be your favorite food too," I agree, my mouth full of human heart. Eola laughs as I revel in the delightful taste. Even though I have had some traumatizing experiences with human hearts in the past, this meal is absolutely the best I have had since leaving Riften.

"D' oo li' al'my, swee' pea sou'?" Eola asks with her mouth suddenly full of what is likely human flesh, since she just served plates full of human flesh and also part of a leg is sticking out of her mouth.

"You put your foot in your mouth," I tell her aimlessly. "Actually, not your foot. Someone else's." I pause and gaze up at the ceiling, lips slightly parted as I consider this conundrum-drum— _Where's my drumroll? Sheogorath had one for me…_ "They put their foot in your mouth using your hands to do so," I decide sagely.

"True," Eola says cheerfully after an audible swallow. She pulls the leg out of her mouth and waves it at me. "Do you like alchemy, sweet pea soup?" she repeats with her mouth suddenly less full.

"I like eating plants," I agree.

"Same difference," Eola replies breezily. "You know that just about every part of human can be used in alchemy, right?"

I gasp and lean forwards, gazing at her intently, and she smiles, a couple flakes of skin stuck in her teeth.

"Mmhm, like that heart you just ate. If it weren't cooked, it could do some damage to your health. Grind it up into a nice, thick paste and you've got yourself part of a poison."

I nod my head sagely and wonder if I could stand grinding up a raw human heart, what with all the blood and all.

"Also, watch this, my little lamb shank." With a flourish, Eola savagely rips a bone from the leg she has been using as a pointing stick and then places the skin and flesh parts back onto her plate. She brandishes the bone at me, and I reflexively try to grab it so that I can draw pictures in the dirt. "Oh, no, sweetroll," Eola says gently, drawing the leg bone away. "Look at this."

She pulls out a mortar and pestle as well as a massive, wickedly sharp cleaver from somewhere and uses the cleaver to chop of the edge of the bone. She tosses the bone fragment into the mortar and savagely grinds the bone. Once it is nothing but a fine powder, she shows it to me proudly.

"This is bone meal," she says. "You can use it in alchemy to—"

I reflexively take the bowl before she can play keep-away like with the leg bone, and she stares as I dump the entire mortar's worth into my mouth, accidentally swallowing the pestle as well in the process.

"…Didn't you… want to know what its effects are first?" Eola says slowly.

"It tastes like chalk!" I gasp happily. "Where's the… the…" My eyes begin to droop. "The… rests…?"

My vision blacks out and I tumble to the ground for a nice nap.

xXx

"I could have told you it did that," Eola scolds me, one hand on her hip when I blink awake again. She uses her other hand to wave a folding fan made of what looks like human flesh at me.

Guided on instinct, I reach out and take it from her. I take a small bite and instantly feel the desire to vomit.

"Oh, for…" Eola sighs and takes the fan from my hands. "Uncooked human flesh is not good for you unless you are a dedicated priest of Namira," she scolds me. "Bone meal makes you tired and you just ate a _lot_ of it. I'm surprised you were asleep for only a minute."

"Can I see the bone meal again?" I ask her eagerly. Eola looks at me suspiciously but does show me a new batch of the powder. I instantly snatch it from her hands and, ignoring her surprised exclamation, I dump it all into my mouth. The chalky flavor as well as the choking sensation of the pestle forcing itself down my throat settles my stomach. I promptly fall back over and fall asleep again.

xXx

"Why would you do that?" Eola asks as she stares down at me again.

"Can I see the bone meal again?" I ask her eagerly, unsure why I want it but hit with the very strong desire to eat it again.

"Absolutely _not_ ," Eola chastises me. "In fact, you should stay away from alchemy based on your propensity to—Oh, don't do… that… Namira's sake…"

Having spotted an opportunity to alchemize more, I snatched her fan again and put it into my mouth. I do not know why, but my stomach instantly roils as I munch on it. Wondering if it is because I am hungry, I start eating it more, but my stomach only decides to revolt. Looking around wildly, I grab a convenient mortar sitting beside me and throw up into it. Now, for some reason, it has two pestles when it should really only have one, but I distinctly remember it having zero just a moment ago. _That's one and not one,_ I realize. _Zero is a sad number. It has no ones. Unlike me, who has someone. Someones, in fact. Friendship!_

I look up at my newest friendship. "Can I see the bone meal again?" I inquire. "The chalky flavor might settle my stomach."

Eola stares at me before gently prying the flesh fan from my hands and folding it. She next surreptitiously hides a mortar that looks to be filled with a chalky powder that I am overcome with the desire to eat.

"Why don't you just keep eating the food I made you, my little flesh fan," she finally says when I simply stare at her, slowly forgetting what I had asked.

"Oh!" I gasp happily before returning to my lovely heart-shaped heart. _It has so many bites in it, though, that it isn't shaped like a heart anymore…_ Angered at whoever had ruined its shape, I begin to devour it furiously.

We feast for over an hour—give or take a year or so—until I spot a pair of familiar slitted eyes at the entrance of the cave.

"Ma'dran!" I yell happily at my actual Khajiit friend hovering nervously at the mouth of the cave. "Welcome home!" I cry. "I was worried about you! It's been so long!"

"This one appreciates your worry," Ma'dran says courteously, "but Ma'dran has news. This one believes that a dragon is approaching the Kynesgrove."

I gasp and leap to my feet, accidentally knocking over my chair along the way. "I've gotta go!" I exclaim to Eola and the of-en coven.

"D'aw," Eola sighs. "It's a shame such a delectable slice of humanoid sugar can't stay."

"You can come with me," I say hopefully to my new friend who enjoys comparing me to various pieces of food. "I kill a good amount of people."

"Mm, it is almost as tempting as you are," Eola muses, "but I can't leave my coven. Keep in touch, though, my little cinnamon bun."

"Okay," I say mournfully. "I hate writing letters, but I will write letters and send couriers here with them so you can also have a snack."

Eola squeals in delight and pulls me into a tight hug. "Draw pictures if you don't want to write," she says. "I'd love to see your art."

Overjoyed, I squirm a little and clap my hands. "You're the best," I tell her.

"Er, Liar, friend," Ma'dran calls from the other side of the cave, "it would not be good if your nemesis fled before you could catch him."

I perk up at that and give Eola one last hug before drawing both my mace and my screaming stick. I make to go to Ma'dran, but Eola grabs my wrist. "I almost forgot," she says cheerfully. She hands me a thick book that I take with proper reverence. "My recipes," she explains, "complete with lots of pictures. Enjoy!"

"Thank you!" I cry happily. I try to put the book in one of my pouches, but it does not fit. With a soft frown, I next stick it between my breasts. Eola glances at it, grins, and waves her hands in a shooing motion.

"Go and hunt your prey," she says, "and don't forget to write, my little sweetroll."

I nod, nearly in tears at leaving my newest friend already, so I swiftly turn and dash out of the cave, calling out farewells to the other coven members. "This was a wonderful Bretventure!" I yell my last words just as I reach Ma'dran. Eola's surprised laughter carries me out of the cave. Shadowmere trots along behind me.

 **I am delighted by this day,** he tells me. **Whenever you wish to visit this place, I will happily escort you here.**

"Thank you," I reply gravely. I turn to Ma'dran. "And thank _you_ ," I exclaim. "Now we can go murder the _dovahkiin_ and then we'll climb up the steps and tell the Greybeards the wonderful news!"

"You are very welcome," Ma'dran says graciously. "…Would you like Ma'dran to put the book into his pack so that it does not… fall?" With a happy squeal, I remove the book from between my breasts and hold it out to him. He stares at it for a moment before gingerly taking it from me and putting it into the satchel at his side.

Suddenly, the ground trembles with the force of a massive roar—the roar of a _dovah_. I gasp and leap onto Shadowmere's back, barely giving Ma'dran the time to join before giving Shadowmere the strict order to return to Kyensgrove. The scenery rushes past in a blur as Shadowmere crashes through the undergrowth, egged on by my overwhelming excitement. We reach Kynesgrove in a matter of seconds.

The moment Shadowmere skids to a stop at the edge of the clearing, I hop off his back and rush forwards. I slow to a halt, awestruck, before I get more than ten steps. A massive _dovah_ , scales black as pitch, hovers above a glowing _dovah_ skeleton that is reforming in front of my eyes. With a blast of hot air, skin like molten lava crawls across the bones, forming wings, horns, spikes, and claws along the way. When the _dovah_ skeleton is completely covered, the bright light fades to reveal a fully-formed _dovah_ with silver scales that gleam dully in the sun.

" _Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!_ " the black dragon Shouts. " _Slen tiid vo!"_

"…Is that… Sahloknir?" I breathe, awed, as I translate the exchange in my mind. "Sahloknir is alive again…" Tears of joy prickle at the corners of my eyes as Sahloknir shakes his spiky head and gazes up at the black dragon.

 _"Alduin, thuri!"_ he Shouts. _"Boaan tiid bokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?"_

"Alduin…" I repeat, dazed by the sight of all my dreams coming true at once. "Alduin really is back…? My hero has returned?"

 _"Geh, Sahloknir,"_ Alduin rumbles his reply, " _kaali—"_

" _Alduin!"_ I screech as I dash forwards, waving my arms madly. Both dragons turn to look at me. " _Alduin!_ _Hii daal!"_ I yell. _"Hi los ulse pruzaan!"_ I jump up and down joyfully and rush to give Sahloknir a hug around his beautiful silver neck, but Sahloknir breathes out a snort and hops away before I can. " _Grind, Alduin! Grind, Sahloknir!"_ I cry out loudly. " _Hii ney brit rinik! Lok paaz?"_

Alduin's wings pause in their heavy flapping so that the dragon can land beside Sahloknir. I try to hold back delighted squeals as Alduin cranes his neck towards me, but I do not succeed.

 _"Ful,"_ Alduin says in a voice that makes my bones tremble with its force. I clap my hands delightedly in front of my face. " _Daar hi Dovahkiin? Ni balaan."_

" _Nid!"_ I gasp, offended. " _Nid, nid nid! Zu'u dovahkiin ni! Nid, nid, nid!"_ I stamp my foot into the ground with each word until my leg starts to hurt from the repeated impacts. " _Neh zu'u fen ahraan Dov!"_

" _B'vek!"_ a familiar voice screeches before Alduin can reply. " _N'chow_ , that's a real dragon! _N'chow_ , is that Alduin? _N'chow!"_

"I thought you knew we were here to fight a dragon," another voice, an unfamiliar one, says. "And, yes, that's Alduin. You won't have to kill him just yet, though."

My heart pulsing with fury, I spin around and point to the terrified Dunmer digging his heels into the ground as a Breton woman pushes him into the clearing. " _Daar hinskaal sahlag joor los dovahkiin."_ I curl my lip at the pair, and Ellis seems to notice my presence, since he points back at me.

"You!" he shouts. "You _again_? What is your problem? How did you find me? Who _are_ you?"

I scoff at his pathetic ignorance and look back to the _dovahhe_. " _Zu'u fen qahnaar hin moro fah,"_ I tell them confidently.

"What are you saying to it?" Ellis yells while he struggles in the Breton woman's arms. "Let me go, _s'wit_ ," he hisses at her. "I am _not_ fighting these… these _beasts_!"

"It… is… your… _duty_!" the woman grunts as she continues to shove him forwards.

Alduin snorts at me and then breathes a lazy plume of fire towards Ellis. Ellis screeches and dances about like one of those cute puppies that you give coins to— _except Ellis is neither cute nor a puppy_. Without acknowledging either of us further, Alduin flaps his wings and lifts into the air. _He is so beautiful_ , I think, drooling just a little bit.

 _"Sahloknir,_ " he roars as he ascends to the clouds, _"krii daar joorre."_

I cheer happily, ready to help Sahloknir kill these mortals as Alduin commands. Before anyone can kill those mortals, however, the woman mortal draws her sword and dashes murderously towards Sahloknir with a hoarse battle cry. My motherly protective instincts overtake me all at once, so time seems to freeze until I am suddenly by the woman mortal's side with my mace slamming into the side of her head.

She falls over and presumably bleeds everywhere, but my gaze is now on Ellis.

"M-my family will destroy you if you harm me!" he squeaks, casting a fearful glance to the woman mortal's prone body. "Leave now and I shall not seek revenge!"

"Never!" I shriek.

I dash at him and, though he tries to run, tackle him before he can get far. I hold him to the ground with my hand pressing down against his throat. I smile savagely as he sputters and chokes, his eyes wide with terror, and I swiftly pull out a chain of daisies I have tied to my belt and use it to truss him up like an uncooked turkey. He struggles vainly against his binds but gives up almost immediately.

"You will never best me!" he yells savagely. "You may have maybe, possibly, maybe not, won this battle—we shall see—but I am winning the war!"

"Oh, hush, you stupid, stupid stupidity," I snort. Ellis growls at me and swings his head around. He catches sight of Ma'dran standing at the edge of the grove and scoffs.

"What about you, _cat_?" he snaps. "You are aiding and abetting a criminal, but what else can one expect from a filthy Khajiit?" He tries to spit towards Ma'dran, but he does not get any momentum behind it, so some saliva just dribbles down the side of his face. "Calling you a carpet is an insult to décor!" he adds.

Madanach hisses from his place atop my head, and I mentally agree with him. "Ma'dran," I call out to him, "would you like to do the honors of gagging this stupid, stupid stupidity?"

"I would enjoy that," Ma'dran purrs.

"The rugs in my personal sewage locker were higher quality than your mangy fur could ever _dream_ of being, you flea-ridden humanoid beast!" Ellis unwisely continues to shout. He visibly trembles when Ma'dran runs at him. "O-once I get out of these binds," he says nervously as Ma'dran pulls a wad of linen strips from his satchel, "I will use your pelt for a dish rag. I-in fact, I will use it to clean my personal chamb—"

Ma'dran shoves the linen strips into his mouth and Ellis's words are muffled to angry grumbles. Delighted, I clap my hands gleefully and trot back over to Sahloknir, who has been watching everything silently.

"I caught the _dovahkiin_ ," I inform him happily.

"Release him!" Sahloknir roars with unexpected ferocity. "I wish to fight a _balaan_ opponent."

I spit out a mocking laugh and shake my head furiously, both hands on my hips. "If you want to fight a worthy opponent," I advise him, " _that_ idiot"—I point to Ellis, who gives me a complaining noise—"is not worth your time. You are _so_ out of the stupid, stupid stupidity's league."

" _Thuri_ Alduin ordered me to kill you mortals!" Sahloknir returns. He rears up on his back legs and then slams the ground with his clawed wingtips. He growls at me while I gaze at him, a worshipful expression undoubtedly on my face. "Look," he snaps, "I did not wake up after centuries just to be badgered by some silly _joor_ who thinks it's all that just because it can speak a little _Dovahzul_."

"I'm so sorry!" I gasp. "I didn't know! Who's this silly mortal that's bothering you? I'll kill 'em!"

"I just want to eat someone, dammit!" Sahloknir Shouts.

"Oh, you want to eat him?" I squeal. "Okay, maybe we can share!"

"No, he's mine!" the _dovah_ retorts. "I'm starving! Have you ever been dead for centuries? I am _literally_ just skin and bones."

I muse over this as deeply as I can, but I discover not a single conclusion. "I… don't think so," I admit, "but it's so hard to remember the centuries sometimes. History books are boring are reading is so _difficult_."

"Oh yeah?" Sahloknir scoffs. He shakes his silvery head. "You think reading _joor_ languages is difficult?" he inquires sardonically. "Try reading _Dovahzul!_ "

"Oh, I can do that!" I cry happily. "The lines are so nice and pretty!"

"You can… read my language?" Sahloknir asks curiously. "Speak it _and_ read it?"

"Absolutely!" I laugh. "I _love_ languages, but Common is just so difficult and I hate it and I can't do it and it's a horrid language."

Sahloknir regards me thoughtfully for a moment and then sits back on his haunches, folding up his wings as he does so. He snakes his neck down so that his head is near to my face. I resist the urge to reach out my hand and pet him on his beautiful nose and then give him a kiss on his little forehead. _I love Sahloknir and this is the best day of my life, even better when the saber kitten and puppy became unlikely animal friends._

"You know," Sahloknir begins, "I was thinking of starting a book club before I died, and maybe I'll go do that again. You want to join?"

"Yes!" I shriek. "Yes, yes, yes! I would _love_ to."

Sahloknir puffs out a breath of frosty air that cools me down quite pleasantly. "Fine," he says suspiciously, "but we'll be having a potluck. Everyone needs to bring a _joor_ for snacks. Mer are okay, but they tend to be rather bony and tough."

In the background, Ellis makes a complaining noise against his gag.

"I'd love to sacrifice a human, so long as you don't mind cooking it first," I say.

"Of course!" Sahloknir replies. "We're not _savages_."

"Yay!" I cheer. "I knew I liked Namira!"

"Hey!" Sahloknir snaps. "Are you calling me a slug? A bottom-feeder?"

"No, no," I assure him hastily. "I just love to eat _joor_ like a proper _dovah_."

Sahloknir relaxes slightly and nods his beautiful, gorgeous, regal head. "You seem… tolerable for a _joor_ ," he says with clear hesitation. "I will tell that to any _dovahhe_ , and they might even let you live. I am respected in the _Dov_ community as a poet, you know," he adds with a touch of pride.

"I would _love_ to hear your poetry!" I gasp. Sahloknir wiggles in delight and puffs another breath of frost into my face, this time in a friendly manner. "Can you recite some for me?"

" _Tiiraaz_ , it is difficult to remember such things after being dead for so long," Sahloknir sighs. "If you would like, I shall find my old poems or write some new ones for our first book club meeting."

"That would absolutely make my life infinitely better," I effuse. "Please do that!"

" _Geh_ ," he decides. "If you come across my _zeymahhe_ , tell them, ' _Sahloknir fah hi zorox sikki_. _Werid Alduin un thuri!_ ' and they might stay for conversation."

"Okay!"

"Repeat it so I know you shall remember," Sahloknir fusses as though worried. " _Dii zeymahhe_ shall eat you without question otherwise."

" _Sahloknir fah hi zorox sikki,"_ I dutifully repeat. _"Werid Alduin un thuri!"_

"Good," Sahloknir huffs. "If you are still alive by the book club's first meeting, then I will find you with the location."

"I would love to be alive!" I smile dreamily and then gesture to Ellis with a gasp. "Where are my manners?" I cry. "Please, I know you're hungry. Feast away!"

In the background, Ellis makes a very loud complaining noise against his gag.

"I would be delighted to," Sahloknir rumbles with a little head bob. "But where are _my_ manners," he says. "What's your name, little _joor_?"

"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I inform him as is only polite.

Sahloknir nods thoughtfully. "That's easy enough to remember," he says, which is the first time I have ever heard someone say those words after I introduced myself. "Fair skies, Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu."

"And to you," I say cordially. I wriggle with happiness and trot over to Ma'dran, who is still watching Ellis with a critical eye. "Let's give Sahloknir some space to eat his first meal in centuries," I tell him.

"Ma'dran agrees," the actual Khajiit says. He gives Ellis a savage kick in the leg for good measure, offers Sahloknir a nervous bow, and then follows me back to Shadowmere.

 **…Do you prefer _dovahhe_ over me?** Shadowmere asks uncertainly once I get close. I clap my hands over my mouth and rush to him, wrapping my arms around his beautiful, warm neck and nuzzling my face against his beautiful, warm face.

"Never!" I cry, close to tears. "You are my precious Shadowmere, the most beautiful and warm and valiant and handsome and wonderful and fast and strong and smart horsie in existence! I love you!"

 **You… you said my name correctly!** Shadowmere gasps. He nuzzles his soft, velvety, beautiful, warm nose against my forehead and snorts a small blast of heat. **I… I l-love… you too,** he stammers.

"Thank you, Marrow Mer!"

 **Well… it's a start, I guess…**

* * *

-A: Sahloknir, ever-bound dragon spirit!

-A: Let your flesh be restored!

S: Alduin, my lord!

S: Is it time to revive the ancient realm?"

-A: Yes, Sahloknir, my trusted—"

/L: Alduin!

/L: Alduin! You have returned!

/L: You are forever the best!

/L: Hi, Alduin! Hi, Sahloknir!

/L: You are both very beautiful!

/L: How are you?

-A: So

-A: This is the Dragonborn?

-A: It is unworthy.

/L: No!

/L: No, no, no!

/L: I am not the dragonborn!

/L: No, no, no!

/L: I would never harm Dragonkind!

xXx

L: This stupid, pathetic mortal is the dragonborn.

xXx

L: I will kill it for your glory.

xXx

A: Sahloknir, kill these mortals.

xXx

 _Joor_ : mortal

 _Thuri_ : lord

 _Balaan_ : worthy

 _Tiiraaz_ : sadly

 _Werid_ : praise

 _Geh_ : yes

 _Zeymahhe_ : kin

xXx

S: Sahloknir is writing for you. Praise our lord Alduin!

xXx

 _Dii_ : my


	15. Master of Stares, Despair(s)!

_i wrote this chapter in record time (tho it is a comparatively short one). am i getting my mojo-vation back? who can tell? not i, says the thiswordistooshort._

 _also, did i hear yall wanted more scrolling down for translations?_

 _answer: no, no i didn't_

 _relevant reasons for adding more scrolling: N/A_

 _my reasons for adding more scrolling:_

 _-dovahzul is fun_

 _-immersion? maybe? *ah yes, immersion is clearly very important in a story where dragons have book clubs and it's possible to pickpocket a counter*_

 _doot doot dadoot!_

* * *

15\. Master of Stares, Despair(s)!

* * *

"…That's a lot of stairs," I point out to everyone.

 **I would agree** , Shadowmere agrees.

"This one would agree," Ma'dran agrees.

Madanach meows; Madanach agrees.

We are staring at the dozens and dozens and dozens of stairs that lead up to High Hrothgar, where the Greybeards live. I have decided that it is my sacred duty to inform those skulking beards that the horrid disgrace of a Dunmer, never mind a _dovahkiin_ , is dead. I am sure they will be delighted by the news, though not as delighted as I am.

These dozens and dozens and dozens of stairs, however, are a bit overwhelming.

"I don't want to climb all those stairs," I next explain. I pat Shadowmere on the neck. "I don't want to climb all those stairs," I repeat to him. "Could you please fly like a _dovah_?"

 **…Unfortunately,** Shadowmere replies grudgingly, **that is beyond my nearly all-encompassing abilities. I am… ashamed… I apologize.**

"Oh, don't worry," I console him as I hug him around the neck. "You are perfect! There is absolutely no need for you to fly because you have beautiful hooves of eternal darkness and so you shouldn't be ashamed that you can't fly! You're perfect and wonderful!"

 **You speak the truth,** Shadowmere snorts, his deserved arrogance returning full force. **I _am_ perfect. Hm… I cannot fly, but I could run up the side of the mountain if you prefer.**

"Ooh," I gasp. "That sounds fun!"

 **Yes.**

"Let's do that!" I give Shadowmere a frozen tomato and a few gourds which he eats delightedly. "Do you also want a soul?" I ask after he finishes chewing.

 **Yes, but only after we ascend,** he says. **I do not wish to get a cramp from overeating.**

"You're so smart," I praise him, and he stamps his hooves of darkness in joy. I point to the clouds far above. "That's where we need to go," I remind him.

"Ma'dran wonders what—"

Shadowmere interrupts the confused Khajiit with a loud neigh and jumps onto the side of the mountain. I wrap my arms around his soft neck, and Ma'dran grabs onto me in return. Madanach hisses and digs his little claws into my head.

"Did you have a question?" I shout to Ma'dran over the wind and clattering of Shadowmere's hooves.

"This one has the answer," Ma'dran replies in a shaky voice.

"What was the answer?" I call back.

"Run up the side of the mountain."

"What was the question?"

"What shall we do if not climb the steps?"

"Run up the side of the mountain," I inform him. "That's what we're doing right now!"

"…This one is aware of that."

"Then why did you ask?" I inquire, befuddled, as Shadowmere continues running nearly vertically.

"It was… Ah, it was Ma'dran's mistake," he replies humbly. "Do not trouble yourself."

"Well, okay!" I say with a laugh. "You shouldn't get into trouble either!"

"I will attempt not to do so."

 **We may be close to arriving,** Shadowmere tells me after a boring few seconds of climbing up a steep mountain with so much speed that I cannot even see the scenery pass us by. _Oh, my eyes are closed_ , I realize. I open my eyes to see lots of gray rock and also some snow.

 _I do ever so love snow._

"As long as there's mountain," I yell to Shadowmere, "keep climbing! I hear that there's extra snow on the very top of mountains!"

 **I shall do so,** Shadowmere agrees. **I expect likewise compensation, however.**

"Of course!" I cry. "You deserve all the food and beautiful produce in the world!"

 **Indeed.**

"This one believes we just passed High Hrothgar," Ma'dran exclaims as Shadowmere runs past a large castle.

"Nah," I say dismissively. "The Greybeards are supposed to be at the _top_ of the mountain, not at the almost-top." Suddenly, we are hit with a massive blast of cold wind that makes me laugh delightedly but makes Shadowmere skid to a halt.

 **If we go further,** Shadowmere tells me, **I do believe our passengers will fall off or die.**

I look behind me to see Ma'dran, a terrified Madanach holding onto his shoulder, about to fall off Shadowmere. "Go to the castle, then," I tell him disappointedly.

 **I wish to gallivant up the mountain…** Shadowmere complains but hops down anyway.

He lands on a massive snow bank, spewing powder every which way, and a series of icicles decorating the roof of the castle fall down and impale a couple pilgrims who had decided to bother climbing all those dozens and dozens and dozens of stairs and also managed to survive wolves, trolls, bears, treacherous weather, and icy steps only to be killed by a freak accident that could not have been avoided at all under any circumstances. _They should've just run up the side of the mountain._

Ma'dran and Madanach instantly leap off Shadowmere's back and skitter to the castle, shivering badly. Shadowmere follows at a more leisurely pace, pausing to absorb the souls of the two pilgrims. He snorts a plume of flame and then grazes gently upon one of their rib cavities. I reach down and begin eating snow.

"This one would prefer to remain here, if he may," Ma'dran says, his teeth chattering as Madanach meows agreement from the Khajiit's arms. "F-feel free to finish the climb, however. Ma'dran and the little one shall be waiting here—or, perhaps inside. Near a fire. Yes."

"M'kay!" I cry delightedly, my mouth full of wonderful iciness. "Sandy Mount!" I call to him without delay other than to swallow all the snow. "Let's keep climbing!"

Shadowmere lifts his head, his beautiful muzzle stained red with what must be strawberry jam, and trots over to me. **We shall continue to gallivant up the mountain?** he inquires eagerly. I nod, smiling when he stamps his magical hooves in response. I hop onto his back, wave to Ma'dran and Madanach, then hold on tightly as Shadowmere rears. With a delighted snort, he dashes forwards, right into the blizzard.

I bask in the cold, wishing I could live here forever, and wonder why everyone else seems so affected by it. Even Shadowmere is having some trouble, as he is breathing heavily and moving more slowly the higher we go. He carries on, however, never once complaining, and I mentally resolve to feed him all the produce I can find in the world for his valiant perseverance. Before long, the mass of tall rock flattens into a plateau of beautiful snow. The winds are also gone up here for some reason. I gasp joyfully and throw myself into the snow, rolling about in it with abandon. Shadowmere trots to me in a very dignified manner and whinnies expectantly.

"Oh," I realize. "Here you go, sweetie." I hand him a few filled soul gems and a few dozen bundles of wheat, grapes, raisins, toast, craisins, butterscotch candies, lettuce leaves, rabbits, and loaves of bread. Shadowmere delightedly gorges, but I quickly become distracted again by the delightful world of snow all around me.

 _I do love snow ever so much._

xXxXxXx

Paarthurnax had not been expecting to be roused from his nap, but he sensed something, something that was not snow and ice or the remains of his last meals. That was impossible, however; if someone had Shouted _Lok Vah Koor,_ had cleared the impassible storm that prevented access to his perch, he would have heard. The only option was that someone had dropped from the sky, but…

It smelled like a _joor_. _Joorre_ did not fly, as far as he was aware.

Paarthurnax blinked his eyes open and swiveled his head into the direction of the scent. To his bafflement, there was a jet-black horse—very large in relation to the horses he had seen—with red eyes chewing on a loaf of bread. He swore it looked happy. _Why is there…_ His thoughts were interrupted, however, when he noticed a small form rolling about in the snow beside the horse's hooves. The form let out a giggle and continued tossing its body through the white powder. The snow was so deep that the only visible part of the form was its booted feet when it kicked them into the air.

The form had not seemed to notice him, a giant dragon, yet.

Paarthurnax coughed slightly in hopes to get its attention.

The form gasped exaggeratedly and sat up, snow covering its body, which was hardly covered otherwise. From what Paarthurnax knew of _joorre_ , they froze easily, yet this one seemed perfectly content.

Instead of cowering in fear at the sight of him, the _joor_ called out, " _Grind!"_ in a delighted voice. It waved boisterously and stood up, not bothering to brush the snow from itself.

"… _Het… joor…?"_ Paarthurnax said slowly, still in disbelief. " _Vonmindoraan. Wo los hi?"_

 _"_ Liar! _"_ it introduced itself.

Paarthurnax stared deeply at it. Other than the Greybeards, he knew of only one _joor_ who would be able to climb to _Monahven. "…Dovahkiin los hi?"_ he inquired slowly. Then, he lifted his nose and sniffed the air. _"Nid…"_ he murmured to himself. _"Ko hi ni rii se dovah…"_

" _Zu'u ni dovahkiin tahrodiis,"_ the _joor_ snapped with unexpected ferocity.

It was then that Paarthurnax realized that he was speaking _Dovahzul._ That the _joor_ was speaking _Dovahzul._ Unnerved by this, he switched to Common.

"Why… _how_ … are you _het—_ here—little _joor_?" he asked.

"My horsie ran me up the mountain!" the _joor_ giggled. Now that the snow was beginning to melt from its body, Paarthurnax could guess its gender. He was not well-versed in human anatomy, but the shape of its form seemed feminine. The _Dovahkiin_ was a man, so this could not be him.

"…What about _mulaag_ _ven_?" Paarthurnax said, struggling to find the words in Common. " _Strun…_ the storm, the winds."

"So refreshing!" the _joor_ cried. It—no, she—swayed from side to side with her hands clasped in front of her chest. "I oh so do so love the snow so!"

"…Unexpected," was all Paarthurnax managed. Realizing he had not yet introduced himself, he bowed his head slightly. " _Zu'u Paarthurnax, Liar,_ " he rumbled in _Dovahzul_ , still not convinced she truly understood his Tongue. _"Paaz shul grind."_

" _Paaz shul grind!"_ she squealed in reply. _"Los Liar!"_

Paarthurnax wondered if he were dreaming. "What brings you, a mortal, _a_ _Monahven_?" he asked, returning to Common so that he could pretend she did not understand _Dovahzul_.

"I wanted to play in the snow!" she replied with a happy clap of her hands.

Paarthurnax stared at her. There was snow in many places in this country. Climbing arguably the tallest mountain in Skyrim seemed like more effort than necessary to play in the snow.

The _joor_ , Liar, stared right back, an unconcerned smile on her face.

"…Ah." Paarthurnax eventually said.

"Oh!" Liar gasped, again clapping her hands in front of her in an imploring sort of manner. "Sahloknir invited me to his book club and wanted me to spread the word! Will you join?"

Paarthurnax shifted his feet so that he was positioned more comfortably. "You met… Sahloknir and yet… you live?" he said slowly.

"Yeah!" she laughed as though it were perfectly expected. "He was super-duper nice! He promised to read me some of his poetry!"

Paarthurnax could not rightly process most of those words, so he simply blinked. "…He did write some good poetry back in the day," he agreed in bafflement.

"Anyway," Liar continued casually, "I just fed the _dovahkiin_ to Sahloknir, so we should have lots of time to make poetry!"

Paarthurnax sat up and unfurled his wings in shock. "…You _what_?" he roared, but the _joor_ was unfazed. "Why in… why would you _do_ that?"

"He wanted to murder _dovahhe_!" Liar retorted petulantly, her hands now on her hips. "How could I let that happen?"

" _Dovahhe_ do not belong in this plane!" Paarthurnax cried disbelievingly. " _Alduin, Feyn do Jun,_ shall destroy Mundus!"

"Yes!" she said, her face glowing with pure joy.

Paarthurnax forced himself to push down his anger, though this little _joor_ was testing his centuries of meditation. "Whyever would you want this?" he asked, straining to keep his voice low so as to not Shout her from the mountaintop.

"Because I'll be a _dovah_ by then!"

Paarthurax stared at her. _Joorre_ did not become _dovahhe_.

The _joor_ , Liar, stared right back, an unconcerned smile on her face.

Paarthurnax held her gaze in bafflement. _Joorre_ did _not_ become _dovahhe._

The _joor_ , Liar, stared right back, an unconcerned smile on her face.

Paarthurnax looked away first, unsettled by this terrifying creature. He needed to think, to think without interruption from her. "…There is unmelting snow over there if you would like to play in it," he said, hoping that would distract her.

Sure enough, the _joor_ squealed in delight and dashed over to the place Paarthurnax had indicated. "Thank you, Paarthy!" she laughed.

"What did"—The _joor_ was out of hearing before Paarthurnax could finish his question—"you just call me?" he finished to himself in a murmur. The _joor_ was skipping happily on the unmelting snow, slipping with abandon and laughing as she crashed into the ground.

Paarthurnax closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to meditate. It was difficult with the _joor_ behind him shrieking like a child, but he had centuries of practice. She would not overturn centuries of practice. She would _not_. He could control himself. One _joor_ would not—

"I love, love, love the snow!" she squealed, and he heard her yell, "ow!" as she slipped yet again.

Paarthurnax felt his eye twitch.

It took far more time than usual, but Paarthurnax eventually managed to clear his mind enough to expand his senses. To his slight surprise, he felt a familiar presence. A flash of disappointment hit him, but he quelled it before it could fester.

"…I sense the _Dovahkiin_ still," Paarthurnax called out to the _joor_ on the other side of the mountaintop. He turned his head to see her stop trying to chew on the unmelting snow as she gazed at him with a dumbfounded expression. She blinked and slowly rose to her feet. "The soul of the _Dovahkiin_ remains on this plane," Paarthurnax reiterated. He did not know why he felt nervous telling this _joor_ , but the murderous snarl that suddenly overtook her face rivaled that of Alduin.

"…He's alive?" she hissed dangerously. She drew a spiked mace in her left hand and a staff carved with an exaggerated face in her right. "Oh, it's _murder_ time for a specific little Reedrambling Ellis stupid stupidity who _dares_ —"

"Do not!" Paarthurnax yelled, now certain that this _joor_ would hunt down the _Dovahkiin_ without pause and make sure he was dead at any cost. Liar did not move, but a frightful expression remained on her face. "Leave the _Dovahkiin_ be," Paarthurnax ordered.

The _joor_ sighed despondently yet obediently returned her mace to its sheath on her back. She kept holding onto the staff, however. She began to poke at the snow with it, but her movements were unenthusiastic and disappointed. All her previous energy, her joy in frolicking through the snow, had disappeared. _Perhaps I should not have told her that the_ Dovahkiin _was alive_ , Paarthurnax wondered as he watched Liar pout.

"For _now_ , at least," Paarthurnax added, and, to his relief, the _joor_ turned to look at him hopefully. "The _Dovahkiin_ is somewhat… bothersome," Paarthurnax admitted, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. That Dunmer had sent a messenger up to High Hrothgar to tell the Greybeards that he would never ruin his shoes by trekking up stairs unless he had a palanquin, which he ordered the Greybeards to provide. "If the _Dovahkiin_ continues to be unreasonable," Paarthurnax continued to the wide-eyed _joor_ , "then… different tactics may be... considered."

A slow smile spread across Liar's face until she was beaming again. "If I can't kill him," she said eagerly, "can I beat him up, knock out his teeth, and poke out at least one eyeball if I ever see him again?"

Paarthurnax hesitated for a long time. The _Dovahkiin_ was infuriating enough that Paarthurnax had wished he could eat him many times, but that would be dismantling his aforementioned centuries of mediation to quell his vicious urges. He could not condone such violence, violence against the _Dovahkiin,_ the intended savior of the world, no less. This female _joor_ would not… overturn… centuries of…

"… _Geh_ ," Paarthurnax decided before he could help himself. "You may." He reasoned that he was not the one committing violence after all, that he was not to blame for how this _joor_ conducted herself. _It is not a loophole,_ he told the part of himself that was telling him it was a loophole.

He gazed at the _joor_ as she began frolicking through the snow again, now dragging her staff through the powder as she skipped about. _This one can speak_ Dovahzul _,_ Paarthurnax thought. _She climbed to_ Monahven _without apparent effort. She has interacted with my kin and survived—perhaps even befriended them. She has the means and abilities to strongarm the_ Dovahkiin _if necessary. I would be remiss in simply allowing her to leave…_

"Would you be my _joor_ warrior?" Paarthurnax rumbled impulsively. "To perform tasks I would be unable?" _Because I am sworn from committing violence_ , was his mental addition. _It is not a loophole,_ he also reminded himself sternly.

The _joor_ froze in place, then slowly, carefully turned to face him. Her amber eyes were wider than should be possible and sparkled with awed disbelief. "…Yes," she breathed almost too softly to hear. " _Geh_. It would be my… greatest honor." She wiped a tear from her eye and sniffled. "You can call me Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," she said with emotion clogging up her voice. "Can I call you Uncle Paarthy?"

"Er—"

"Thank you, Uncle Paarthy!" she cried, any emotion save delight having disappeared from her countenance.

"You are… welcome?" Paarthurnax managed.

"Also," Liar gasped, pointing at him with her staff, "do you know any red _dovahhe_? I want to marry one."

"Red _dovahhe_?" Paarthurnax repeated without thinking much about her last statement. "There is Odahviing, but—"

"Odahviing!" she gasped. "Okay!"

"—he will require a test of strength before acknowledging you as a worthy match."

"I would have it no other way!"

The _joor_ looked like all her dreams had come true at once, and Paarthurnax was tempted to Shout Odahviing's name just to see if she could impress him. As for the 'marriage' detail, that was rather strange but unlikely meant literally. Instead, Paarthurnax sighed, accidentally breathing a plume of blistering flame towards Liar, but she gave no indication that she had felt it.

"I may want to call you again…" Paarthurnax said thoughtfully. "Would you mind if I gave you a name that I may Shout to summon you here?"

For the second time, the _joor_ was left gaping in shock. She did not even manage to give an audible answer, only nodding her head dazedly.

"Hmm…" Paarthurnax mused, trying to ignore the idolatry in Liar's eyes. He considered how she had ascended this mountain, how she had resisted the freezing temperatures of the snow and ice, and how she had remained unmoved when faced with other elements. "Would you enjoy _Mulviikest?_ " he eventually proposed.

" _Mul… Viik… Kest…_ " the _joor_ repeated, tears sparkling in both her eyes. She sniffled loudly and nodded. "Very much," she choked out. "That is the highest honor anyone could ever give me ever and ever and ever. Thank you. Thank you so, so much, Uncle Paarthy."

"Indeed, Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," he returned graciously.

Paarthurnax was unprepared for the _joor_ to rush at him, so he only managed an undignified snort of surprise when she threw her tiny arms around his neck in a tight hug. The gesture was undeniably affectionate and filled him with an odd sort of warmth.

He was beginning to understand how she had captured the hearts of other _dovahhe._

* * *

 _dovahzul:_

/L: Hi!

P: A mortal… is here?

P: Incomprehensible.

P: Who are you?

/L: I'm Liar!

P: Are you the Dragonborn?

P: No, you do not have the soul of a dragon.

/L: I am not that treacherous Dragonborn.

…

 _mulaag ven_ : the powerful wind

 _strun:_ storm

…

P: I am Paarthurnax.

P: Nice to meet you.

/L: Nice to meet you!

/L: I'm Liar!

…

 _a Monahven:_ to the Throat of the World

 _Feyn do Jun:_ Bane of Kings

 _Mul Viik Kest_ : Strength Conquer Tempest


	16. Forgetting Regretting Un-mending, the

_it's a bit early for an update, but how can i ignore a perfectly good 420? the answer is… i can't! for today's 420, we are switching povs… again._

* * *

16\. Forgetting. Regretting. Un-mending, the Daedra of

* * *

Cynric was home. He was finally back home.

Cynric had been dreaming of this every night since he had left Riften. At first, it had just been homesickness, but that had rapidly devolved into a terror for his life every single second of every day. Through no fault of his own, he had been chased by dragons, hagravens, oversized animals, and a plethora of other nasties. The final straw, however, had been Daedric Princes.

And a possessed kitten.

And the Dark Brotherhood.

And a telepathic demon horse.

Now that he thought about it, there had been a lot of final straws, and all of them were legitimate reasons to leave. Hell, no one would have blamed him if he had left after the first dragon or when Liar decided to murder the Dragonborn, Skyrim's potential savior. No one could blame him for leaving—for _running_ —but he still felt guilty.

He felt guilty mostly for leaving without saying anything, but he did not know how Liar would have reacted. Anything would have been bad, honestly. If she had not minded, he would have known he did not mean anything to her, which was what he suspected. If she had been sad, he would have felt unbearably guilty. If she had been angry, he would probably be dead right now. He did not feel regret, though. He just felt _awful._

But now he was back home, and he doubted Liar would ever manage to find her way back here. She would forget this place existed, that the Thieves Guild existed, that _he_ existed, but that was fine.

That was fine.

That was completely damn _fine_.

Aware of but unwilling to admit to his own lie, Cynric morosely approached the city, trying desperately but unsuccessfully not to wallow. He hoped Liar was not sad but he also _wanted_ her to be sad and he hated himself for—

"Halt and pay the toll!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Cynric shouted, his sadness easily morphing into anger.

"Oi, there's no need for such language," the other guard—Cynric could not remember their names—chastised him.

"Aye," the other added disapprovingly, his fishy lips drooping even more than usual. "It's a bit rude since we haven't done nothin' yet."

"Just… let me in," Cynric appealed, feeling all his emotion start to deflate. "I'm really not in the mood and I just keep forgetting to go to a different gate."

The first guard leaned forwards a bit and squinted at Cynric. He frowned before looking at his companion. "Is this the titty monster's friend?" he asked with complete gravity. "I think I remember 'im from a few weeks back."

It was the other one's turn to inspect Cynric, and he took much longer. Even though Cynric felt impatience rising again, he forced himself to be silent and still. He did not want to provoke either of them. This was almost over.

"I think you're right, Ted," the guard said. "He's all… recognizable."

The two looked at each other as though Cynric were no longer there, and they lowered they voices by just a tad.

"Think we can trust 'im with… _it_?" Ted whispered loudly.

The other guard looked thoughtful— _probably a new expression for him—_ and then nodded slowly. "…Aye, we can't leave our post so… he might be able to get it to 'er even though we can't…"

"Smart, Robert, that's smart," Ted marveled, and Cynric would swear he saw Robert blush. Robert cleared his throat loudly and straightened his posture as he turned to stare imperiously at Cynric again. He waited while Ted fished through the ratty bag discarded at his feet.

"Found it!" Ted cheered, waving about a dirt-stained, hastily-folded piece of paper. He handed it to Robert with a gap-toothed grin, and Robert held it out to Cynric.

Cynric gazed at the paper suspiciously, but eventually plucked it from Robert's grimy hands. "This is for Liar…? Er, the... titty... monster?" he asked hesitantly.

Both guards nodded furiously and said, "Aye," at the same time. They looked at each other, laughed, and then kept staring.

Cynric took advantage of their distraction with one another to slip around Ted and hurry through the gate. Neither guard called after him, so he allowed himself to relax, taking in the familiar scenery. Riften was a dilapidated shithole, but it was his home and he loved it. His cross-country trek with Liar had increased his appreciation for this place and for his guild. He was more excited to return to the Cistern than he had been in years.

Unable to help himself, Cynric flicked the paper open and scrutinized it. It took him a moment to realize he was holding it upside down because of how messy and misshapen the lettering was, but it was slightly more legible when he flipped it over. Not by much, though. Only by sounding out the words aloud was Cynric able to decipher the message.

 _This is for the boob lady and we mean no disregard respectful unrespectfulness 4 for that cuz we dont no how 2 to spel yer name and we r dun killd mole Mole and her bofrend and so now we got a house hows and we r throw ing a hows warmin party nd ur your owr friend n we want 2 ivite u to it nd u kin bring all you frends so ther r ar other gests to._

 _Luv Tedd n Rabrt Robt Rubert Robert_

Cynric shook his head resignedly and pocketed the nearly incomprehensible letter. Pushing it out of his mind, he quickened his pace, impatient to get home, and made it to the secret entrance in record time. He aimlessly realized that no one had ever shown Liar this hidden doorway, but he curled his lip the moment he caught himself thinking about her.

He steeled himself for the imminent questioning from his guildmates before pulling the chain in the false tomb. The moment the stairs were revealed, he rushed down them and pushed his hood up. He wanted a drink before facing the Guild, maybe chat with Delvin, whom Cynric knew would be the least judgmental. Strangely enough, there were very few people in the Cistern—only Thrynn in fact—so no one noticed him. _Maybe people are finally out completing contracts,_ Cynric hoped as he slid into the Ragged Flagon.

Cynric hunched his shoulders when he passed through the hidden door and stepped into the familiar cheerful torchlight. He felt himself relax almost instantly, however, as though he had been gone for years. Brynjolf, who was sitting at his usual table, turned the moment Cynric approached Vekel's bar.

"Cynric!" Bryn shouted and waved frantically. "He's the one we sent after Liar," he quickly informed a Dunmer woman that Cynric had not noticed, and she stood up so fast that the chair began to tip back. Vekel gasped, but the Dunmer's hand shot out and steadied it without even looking.

In the little time he wasted on staring, he noticed that the Dunmer woman was very pretty—even though sharp elven features were not to Cynric's usual tastes. She had dark red eyes speckled with orange, the colors interrupted only by a thin black pupil. Her face was proud, her skin an unblemished dark gray, and she stood almost as tall as a human. Her eyebrows and eyes were slightly skewed, giving her a challenging yet sultry expression as she glared at Cynric.

"Where's my baby sister?" the Dunmer hissed, stalking right up to Cynric, whose mind instantly shifted from her appearance to a fear for his own life. Her gaze was now murderous, and her hands were occupied with a pair of flaming battleaxes.

Cynric held up his hands nervously and backed away— _Baby sister…? I should've known Liar would disrupt my life even here_. "She's fine," he said. The Dunmer visibly relaxed but did not return her weapons. "She's on her way, I think."

The woman frowned. With a slight snarl to Cynric, she sheathed her weapons. Then, she yawned and returned to the table, relaxed again. She threw herself down into the chair across from Brynjolf as if nothing had just transpired. "Daedra above," she muttered. "The little rascal's probably befriending dragons."

"Eh?" Bryn shouted. "That's a dangerous hobby! The lass is gonna get herself killed!"

The Dunmer snorted. "Lillie's not getting killed by some measly dragon," she scoffed. "No, she'll trip off a cliff somewhere random or eat too many fire petals. You can't keep her safe, though," she added sadly. "She does what she wants until she's done everything there is to do... And then she finds something else to do, somehow."

"That's for sure," Cynric muttered. He could not believe this. He had finally worked up the nerve to leave Liar be, and now he came home only to find her _sister_ waiting and apparently already a part of the Guild. He was beginning to wonder if he could blame everything that had happened on Sheogorath. Against his better judgement— _I go against my better judgement rather often nowadays_ —he sat in between Bryn and the Dunmer woman. "So, are you Fenri?" he asked her.

"Mm, that's me," she said, staring at him suspiciously.

"Liar talks about you a lot."

Fenri gasped, her eyes shining, and folded her hands in front of herself delightedly. "Does she? Aw, my sweet little sister! I adore her! She's such a good, pure, innocent soul."

"Er… okay," Cynric said slowly as Fenri grinned happily.

"What a cutie pie," she sighed with overwhelming affection. "She's such a perfect sister."

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed, and she gazed at Cynric with a piercing, terrifyingly intelligent gaze. She seemed to parse through all his hopes and dreams, every aspect of his personality, in less than a second; it was a disarming sensation. Then, a flaming dagger was in her hands. Both Bryn and Cynric flinched, but Fenri only shoved it so hard into the wood table that it sank to the hilt and then leaned her chin against the pommel as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

 _Oh, this is Liar's sister all right._

"I get worried about little Lillie," Fenri admitted. "She's not good at keeping in contact, so I start thinking she's tripped off a cliff or ate herself through a patch of... what do you guys have here? Nightshade? Something like that."

"She's doing fine," Cynric assured her. "She's... surprisingly capable."

"Has she gotten arrested?" Fenri fretted, rocking her chin back and forth on the pommel of the dagger. "Is she eating enough? Is it a balanced diet? Is she practicing with her mace? Is she wearing her jacket? Does she have enough money? Is she sleeping well? Does she have friends? Has she been changing the lettuce and string on her mace? Is she having fun? Did she lose anything to frostbite? Did she adopt a dozen animals yet? Has she eaten someone? Has she poisoned herself? Is she finding things to do? Has she killed too many innocent bystanders? Has anyone tried to grope her? Did she join any clubs? Is she practicing skipping rocks? Is there anyone I need to murder for her? Is she still remembering to blink? Does she talk to inanimate objects? Has she fallen and scraped herself? Did she adopt a puppy? A kitten? A horsie? A dremora? All of the above? More than the above? Does she like the snow?"

Cynric and Brynjolf both gazed at Fenri, baffled by the overwhelming number of questions she had rattled off without once pausing for breath.

"Well," Cynric began when Fenri remained staring at him intently, clearly waiting for a response. "For... arrested... I'll start there. Uh. Not... really?" Cynric hesitated. "She almost did once but the guard... er... forgot."

"Does he still have a head?"

"Y-yes."

Fenri frowned unhappily. "What a softie," she lamented, tilting her head to the side upon the dagger. "She always makes friends with people she should be killing. I guess that's part of her charm, though."

"I… wouldn't call her a softie," Cynric muttered under his breath but, against his intentions, Fenri heard.

"Oho," Fenri drawled mockingly. She lifted her face from the pommel of her knife so that she could lean forwards with a positively feral smile. "I think we have different points of reference, little human," she said in a soft, threatening voice. "Lillie's just a bowl of pure sugary sweetness compared to _me_."

"…Oh," Cynric replied nervously.

"Er, no fighting, ya hear?" Bryn interjected nervously.

"Only 'cause you're Lillie's friends," Fenri agreed dismissively, leaning back in her chair again. "My baby sister has a gentle heart, so she might cry if she remembers you alive but you're actually cold corpses rotting in this soggy disgrace of a sewer."

"…Oh," Bryn replied nervously.

"Now," Fenri said briskly, a genial expression back on her face, "I just want to see my little sis and give her a hug. Where is she?"

"Last I saw," Cynric said cautiously, "she was in Solitude."

Fenri turned to him sharply, and he lifted his hands in a defensive position. "Last you saw?" she asked suspiciously. "Did you… _dare_ … abandon… my little… baby… sister…?"

"Um… no…?" Cynric replied unconvincingly.

Fenri closed her eyes and pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose. "No killing Lillie's friends," she said under her breath. "No killing Lillie's friends. No killing Lillie's friends. No killing Lillie's friends… Sorry, Boethia, but I'll make it up to you." She took three deep breaths and reopened her eyes to look at the nervous Cynric and Brynjolf with a steady gaze. "Why?" she asked simply.

"Huh?"

"Why. Did you. Leave. Her."

"Ah." Cynric cleared his throat. "We… ran into a Daedric Prince and, well… He didn't seem to like me much."

"Which?" Fenri's perfect tranquility was more terrifying than her fury.

"Sheogorath."

"Oh," Fenri laughed happily, any tension in the air vanishing in an instant. "Lillie's safe, then." She waved her hand dismissively at Cynric. "I don't blame you for leaving if you had to chat with Sheggy. He's Lillie's patron, so he can get a bit protective of her—also, he's absolutely bloody terrifying."

"You forgive me…?" Cynric asked cautiously, still fearing for his life.

"No, no," Fenri replied with an air of unconcern. "Of course not. I just understand why you did it. Sheogorath is unpredictable. Every other Prince has a specific goal, a specific want, but not Sheggy. You can never be prepared to face him—just like Lillie."

"You met a Daedric Prince?" Brynjolf asked dazedly, apparently not yet past that revelation. "You met a _Daedric Prince_? In the flesh?"

"Yeah," Cynric said, glad that someone was finally as shocked as he was. "We also ran into a dragon, who Liar chatted with; the Dragonborn, who Liar tried to kill; the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, who Liar _did_ kill; and a horse from the depths of Oblivion, who Liar can apparently talk to in her mind."

"Aw, she _is_ befriending dragons!" Fenri effused, conveniently ignoring the other more violent happenings. "I'm so glad! The whole reason she's visiting Skyrim is to immerse herself so that she can perfect her _Dovahzul._ We heard rumors from Morrowind that dragons were reappearing, and Lillie was just so excited that we all decided to send her on a trip abroad!"

" _That's_ the reason she's here?" Cynric cried disbelievingly. "For conversation with dragons?"

"That's what I just said," Fenri snapped. "Keep up."

"I wish I could say that's unexpected," Bryn muttered. "What a strange lass."

"I know!" Fenri squealed. "Isn't she just so creative and wonderful and smart?"

"Aye," Brynjolf said dryly.

"That's one way of putting it," Cynric agreed.

"Well, okay," Fenri sighed, "I suppose she'll turn up eventually." She stood up and violently ripped her dagger from the table, leaving a deep scour and a blackened area of wood from the fire flickering along the blade. "I need to go make Boethia feel better after not killing you," she said casually as her knife disappeared up her sleeve. "See you later!" With that, she flounced out of the Ragged Flagon, twirling one of her axes in her hand even as it spewed flame.

Cynric turned to Brynjolf, who seemed just as disturbed as he. "How?" Cynric asked simply.

"She just showed up in the Cistern two days back," Brynjolf replied. "Dropped through the grate in the ceiling without warnin' and threatened to murder us all if we didn't tell her where Lillie was. No one had any idea who 'Lillie' was but, when she realized that we weren't hiding the lass anywhere, she explained things."

"…And how did Mercer take to her?" Cynric inquired. "Not well, I assume?"

"Ah, well, ehm, Mercer hasn't met this lass yet," Brynjolf admitted. "He's been off doing Maven Black-Briar's jobs; hasn't been back in about three days."

Cynric whistled and leaned back in his chair, imagining the Guildmaster's fury when discovering Fenri's presence in the Guild. "And where's everyone else?" he asked next.

"Off doin' jobs," Bryn replied, cheer suddenly back in his voice. "Fenri's been scroungin' up work and sending everyone off. The Guild's making almost as much money as it used to!"

Cynric shook his head disbelievingly. "So… it's thanks to those sisters who aren't even really a _part_ of the Guild that we're back on our feet."

"…Aye," Brynjolf agreed after a pause.

"Happy homecoming to me, I suppose…" Cynric sighed. "Okay, well, I robbed Windhelm, so I have some loot that might help the Guild."

"Oh, don't sound so down!" Brynjolf cried boisterously. He clapped Cynric on the shoulder and then stood up. "I'll find a job for ya soon, and then you'll feel more like yourself, aye?"

Cynric managed a glum nod.

xXxXxXx

Fenri S'tharon strode through the streets of Riften with the attitude of a queen returned to her country after a long absence. Now that she knew her little sister was simply exploring the world— _she's probably already found a new friend to help her out_ —Fenri had no reason to worry. She still _did_ worry, of course. Who wouldn't worry about their innocent little sister wandering about an unfamiliar country chock-full of dragons and barbaric savages?

 _No, not barbaric savages,_ Fenri attempted to correct herself. _Lillie doesn't like Mer supremacy. These barbarians are_ not _savages—Oh, I just did it again, didn't I…_

 _Eh, I tried._

Congratulating herself on her efforts, Fenri looked around for an inferior lowlife that would not be missed to sacrifice to Boethia. Since coming to this dilapidated city, she had murdered an annoying orphanage owner who'd had the gall to kick a small Breton child who had reminded Fenri of a young Lillie, as well as an annoying innkeeper who did not believe that Lillie was more beautiful than Dibella. Out of all the Daedric Princes to whom Fenri had promised her soul, she infinitely preferred Boethia, and Fenri hoped her frequent sacrifices would cater Boethia's favor.

 _Liar_ , Fenri next mused as she walked the streets, absent-mindedly twirling her flaming axe in one hand. _Cute nickname. I'll ask her if she prefers it to Lillie next time I see her._ The whole reason Fenri had deigned converse with that Brynjolf fellow was because he had given Lillie such an adorable nickname. That Guild was a mess and a half, and Fenri decided to remain there and fix it up in preparation for Lillie's return. Currently, it was no place for Lillie's home away from home, but Fenri could remedy that easily.

"Guard might get nervous," a man, apparently a guard, dared interrupt her thoughts, "a woman approaches with her weapon drawn…"

"Oh, shut up," Fenri said disdainfully. "I don't want a bounty, but you are tempting me."

" Let me guess... someone stole your sweetroll," the guard grumbled. "My cousin's out fighting dragons, and what do I get? Guard duty."

"Do all guards just started talking to random passers-by?" Fenri hissed exasperatedly. "It's annoying!"

"I need to ask you to stop," the guard warned her. "That... shouting... is making people nervous."

"I wasn't shouting until just now!" Fenri shouted.

"Stay out of trouble, Elf," the guard retorted.

Fenri placed her free hand on her hip. "No!" she said petulantly.

"Hmm," the guard mused. "I still don't like it, but I guess I'll overlook it. This time." Then, he walked away before Fenri could throw a dagger at his face.

"Absolute bloody savages," Fenri muttered to herself.

 _No bounty,_ she reminded herself. _I don't want to massacre the city if Lillie's going to come back. If she changes her mind, though…_ With a vicious grin at the thought of murdering all the annoying guards in this place, Fenri continued twirling her axe, her Dunmer skin easily resisting the intense heat of the flames. _Oh! I'll just kill people_ outside _the city!_ she realized. _Why didn't I think of that earlier? Now to find a shrine…_

"Hey, you!" Fenri yelled when she noticed a woman wearing a ghastly yellow hood and dreary brown robes walking with her head bowed. Priests were usually well-informed about shrine locations.

"Talos bless you, my child!" the woman squeaked as she spun around.

 _Ugh, Talos-worshippers_ , Fenri thought distastefully. _They can't stop talking about him. We get it. You want to worship him. Fine, worship him. I don't care, so stop talking to me because everything you say is boring and your voice is annoying._ "Look," Fenri began, resigned to talking to this woman now that the conversation had already begun. "I'm just wondering if there's a shrine to Boethia around here somewhere."

"Oh," the woman said nervously. "Um…" She nodded to a trio of men and women wearing robes even more dreary than hers.

Assuming the woman meant these people knew where Boethia's shrine was, Fenri spun on her heel and strode up to the group without another word. "Hey, you!" she yelled at these drab people. She noticed offhand that they were armed. "Where's a shrine of Boethia?"

Everyone around her gasped comically, but the group of drab people seemed the most affected. "You speak to a Vigilant of Stendarr," one of them growled, his hand on his sword. "Cavort with any Daedra, and we will hunt you down."

"…What?" Fenri asked, baffled.

"The Mercy of Stendarr does not extend to Daedra worshippers," another explained.

"I… do not care," Fenri informed them. "Do you know where the shrine is?"

"Stendarr's Mercy be upon you, for the Vigil has none to spare," another informed her.

"Okay," Fenri said impatiently. "Again, I don't care and, again, do you know where the shrine of Boethia is?"

"Prepare yourself to receive Stendarr's Mercy," the first one said, drawing his sword. The others quickly followed suit, and the entire group approached Fenri with menacing expressions.

Fenri rolled her eyes and looked around. She gestured to a guard, and he approached nervously. "These idiots want to fight me. Are you going to do anything?" The Vigilants were walking slowly, so there was time for a short conversation.

"That's out of my jurisdiction," the guard sputtered. "But, um, I'll try." He turned to the Vigilants and puffed out his chest. "Riften's under my protection," he said. "You watch yourself, now." The Vigilants pushed the guard out of the way without even pausing.

Fenri sighed heavily. "They're accosting _me_ ," she told the guard, "so don't give me a bounty after I kill them." The guard gave her a thumbs up. "Bloody ace," she said with a smile. _A bunch of Boethia haters will make a lovely sacrifice._

Without further ado, Fenri allowed a dagger to slip from her sleeve and then hurled it at the first Vigilant. It embedded itself into his forehead, and he fell over dead. There were a few irritating shrieks from the pathetic bystanders, but Fenri only drew her other axe and allowed the remaining two Vigilants run at her with some chatter about the apparent mercy of this 'Stendarr' fellow. Fenri shoved an axe into each assailant's throat the moment they were close enough, and they also fell over dead.

 _…That was boring_ , Fenri complained mentally as she pulled both axes out of the Vigilants' respective throats. She backed up so that the corpses would not dirty her clothes with the spurting blood. "Anyone know where a shrine of Boethia is?" she called out to anyone still nearby.

"Er… I've got a map, if you'd like to check," someone offered. He held it out with a trembling arm, and so Fenri plucked it from his grip, studied it until she located the proper shrine, then pocketed it. "Wait, that's mine…" the man said hesitantly.

Ignoring him as she hummed under her breath, Fenri grabbed the closest corpse by the hair, sawed off its head with one of her axes, and then dropped the mess into a sack she carried around for this reason exactly. She repeated the process with the other two corpses, barely remembering to retrieve her dagger from the forehead of the first man.

 _Maybe I can find more scum along the way to the shrine,_ she mused as she strode out of the city with a sack filled with heads. _I can't wait to tell Lillie about all this! She'll be delighted… I just won't mention all the blood._


	17. Jam in the Biscuits of Hands Stained Wit

_just an fwhyi friendos, final deliverables/presentation season is UP and RUNNIN rn, so ill be nonwriting for a few weeks, probs, cuz final exams are riiiiight after. fun times. fuuuuuun times._

* * *

17\. Jam in the Biscuits of Hands Stained With Bloody Noses

* * *

"…Now what?" I ask Ma'dran as he shivers just inside High Hrothgar.

For some reason, Ma'dran had been sheltered underneath the overhang, still outside the castle, with Madanach huddled in his arms, when Shadowmere and I had returned from playing with my Uncle Paarthy in the snow. Seeing Ma'dran and Madanach so cold made me sad, so I ushered them inside the castle.

 _Castle_ , I think to myself. _Stairs._ Monahven. _Mona-stairs._ I suddenly gasp. "This place should be called a monastery!" I yell.

"Does Liar wish to resume the search for her enemy?" Ma'dran asks me. I had explained to him what Uncle Paarthy had revealed, and how I was worried for Sahloknir— _if he did not eat the_ dovahkiin _, then did he get hurt?_

"Paarthy said not to for now," I reply aimlessly, still thrilled at my abilities to make up the word 'castlestairyven.' _Stuffy scholars on mountains have nothing on me—wait… if I'm on a mountain… making words… does that make me a…_ I shake my head vigorously, banishing that thought far, far away. "It's your turn to get revenge now. Let's go to Marketland."

"Markarth."

"Mmhm," I say distractedly. "He _is_ a cat." Madanach meows in agreement, and I pet my lap only to realize it is empty. The familiar searing pain of claws kneading into my skull reminds me that the kitten is actually upon my head. "Mar-cat," I realize. "Market. Land."

"How are so many people getting in here?" someone cries. "Wasn't the door sealed shut with the most complex locks ever created? By the gods, is that a _horse_?" the one adds in a shriek.

 **Of course I am a horse!** Shadowmere retorse.

"That rhymed," I realize. "Words can do that?"

"Get out!" the gray one yells.

"Shh," I tell the man in gray robes that is distracting me from words. "This is my house of mediationalism."

"This is not a house of any ki—"

The man is interrupted by a loud, sarcastic sigh from across the room. "Enough," this man says. I crane my neck so that I can catch a glimpse of him beyond the robed beard in front of me. "I'd have thought you repressed monks would want an excuse for a little revelry, but you're as boring as everyone says."

"Why are there so many Bretons in Skyrim?" I ask the man, who is surrounded by the beard's twins. I cannot tell if the grays are Bretons, but the other man certainly is. "Did something happen to High Rock? How many volcanoes are there there? There. How many of them are _their_ volcanoes? They're volcanoes!"

"Oh, _you_ seem much more promising," the man says with a wide grin, "like someone who can hold her liquor. How about a friendly drinking contest?

He saunters over, shoving the Beardgrey out of the beard-way so that he can stand in front of me. I gaze up at him and yawn. He crouches down to be at eye level. _My level. Myeye level. My I level?_

"Might I level with you?" I blurt out.

"Absolutely!" he returns. He gazes at me expectantly as though waiting for a reply.

"Absolutely!" I tell him, since he obviously wants me to repeat what he just said. _Why else would he be looking at me like that? All expectancy and peckished for pansies. Like that Ellis. What a pansy._

"Er, Liar, friend," Ma'dran says, but the man interrupts him before he can continue.

"Ah, you are a brave one!" the man cries. He grins as he sits down cross-legged and pulls out a large bottle from somewhere. "My name is Sam. Sam Guevenne. Let's get started."

I nod readily, prepared for a party to test my strength of will, but Samgwin only takes a long draught from the bottle, then holds it out to me. He gazes at me expectantly as though waiting for an action.

"Absolutely," I tell him as I take the bottle out of reflex and begin to chug.

"Oh, wait," Sadgin says, but I refuse to lose— _more rhyming? Impossible!_ —to this booze. _More rhyming?_ _Possible!_ "You… this is a contest, you know. Uh, I'm supposed to… have a… turn. Okay, you just finished the bottle."

"Ha!" I screech. I throw the bottle with all my strength, and I hear a crash from beyond as though glass broke.

"Ow!" someone yells, then someone else cries out, "Arngeir! Are you okay? Oh, gods, is he dead?"

"It is… rather dangerous to take drink from a stranger, is it not?" Ma'dran says delicately, gazing at me with his pretty eyes rather frightened. Madanach meows in agreement then scurries to my shoulder to lick my face, catching all the drops of liquor that had dripped about.

"I… think you win," Guinesan tells me after I hiccup. I do not feel particularly well. In fact, I hear Madanach yawn and fall asleep just moments before I follow suit.

xXxXxXx

"My temple!"

That shriek wakes me up.

"My temple!" the shriek repeats. "My temple! My temple! My temple!"

I yawn but only curl up more tightly. I feel a soft ball of fuzz move from my cheek to nap on my ear, so now the shrieks are muffled and I can sleep again.

"What in Dibella's name happened to my temple! There is fruit all over the floor! Dibella's holy fruits! The fruits of my labors! The forbidden fruits! Ah! Even the fruits of the spirit! Everywhere!" I hear a splat as something is crushed. "Ahh!" the shriek shrieks. "The fruit of Self-Control!" Suddenly, the shriek turns into a roar. " **Get up, dammit!** " the roar roars so loudly that the floors shake.

I grumble and only curl up even more tightly so that my breasts nestle comfortably against my knees.

" **If you don't clean up this goddamned temple by the count of ten, I will also smash the fruits of Peace and Gentleness!** " There is another splat sound and another roar. " **The fruit of Patience! You now have the count of _three_ to clean up this temple!**"

"One and one and one," I mumble to myself, dreaming of fruits and numbers and ordinal vegetables. Madanach meows in my ear, and the sound is loud enough that I sit up with a shriek that could rival the shrieks that have been shrieking. Madanach slides from my face to perch on my shoulder.

" **Three…** " the shrieker roars.

I see a convenient bowl in front of me, so I pick it up. After gazing at it for a few moments, I decide to place it delicately atop my head.

" **Two…** "

There is more cutlery about, and I realize that I have not gotten Keerava a present for when I see her again. I begin gathering it all eagerly, and I am soon laden with bowls, plates, goblets, spoons, forks,— _it wasn't a goddamned fork! Or, wait, maybe it was—_ gourds, and a smattering of knives.

" **One!** Oh, this place is cleaned up rather nicely," the roar voice turns into a pretty woman voice without any trace of roar or shriek.

"Roar-oar," I agree. Now that I have all the weapons in this place, the roar-oar cannot harm me. I blink up at a woman wearing ghastly yellow robes. "Your roar-bes are disgusting," I inform her.

"Get out of this temple," she snaps. "Dibella hates you, so I hate you. Shoo."

Madanach meows and bats at the bowl on my head until it clatters to the ground. Satisfied, he curls up on top of my head, replacing the bowl that had taken residence there. "Thank you for the cutlery," I tell her because I do not hate her.

I do not hold grudges, but I do memorize her face so that I can murder her later for daring to roar and shriek at me. Unfortunately, her face is covered by a ghastly yellow hood, so I give up holding my grudge, though I do decide to murder everyone with a ghastly yellow hood just to make sure that this yelling one dies. Just in case she does not die, I throw a butter knife at her, but I do not know where it goes. I hear a clatter behind me, and I turn to see a buttery knife on the ground there. _Did I miss a piece of cutlery?_ I scoot over to it, sliding across the slick floor that makes adorable squeaky sounds as I do so, and collect this last beautiful piece of cutlery.

"Get _out_ ," the ghastly yellow hood whom I thought I had killed tells me again.

"I am going to leave now," I inform her genially because I do not hold grudges.

I stand up and trot over to the ghastly yellow hood. I reach behind me to grab my mace to murder her because I do not remember why, but it is not there. I next reach to grab my screamy stick, but it is also not there. Furious, I knock her on the head with one of my bowls, and she collapses with her skull dented. Thankfully, the bowl is perfectly well. I store the rest of my cutlery in that bowl and balance it with difficulty.

On my way out, I spot my mace and the screamy stick each poking out of one of the giant statue Dibella's statue nostrils. I throw a bowl at statue Dibella's statue face, and her statue head falls off, crushing the ghastly yellow hood so that she dies for a second time. Ignoring the massive spray of blood, I snatch my two weapons from statue Dibella's statue nose, making sure to wipe away any statue snot that might be present, and trot out of the temple with my tottering pyramid of cutlery.

"Doot dadoot," I hum along as the cutlery clinks. "Boop baboop boob bapoop."

"You are under arrest, fiend!" someone yells when I leave the temple.

"She got crushed by statue Dibella's statue face!" I shout in my defense, as my line of sight is covered by a tottering pyramid of cutlery.

"Psh," Someone scoffs. "You can't fool me! You're much too pretty to be Dibella! I know your face isn't Dibella's! You're really, really pretty, and I hope this is not out of line, but will you go out on a date with me after your lifelong sentence in Cidhna Mine?"

"No," I tell Someone sternly. "I shan't, but I do love sentences. A lifelong one sounds brilliant."

"That makes things easier," Someone sighs in relief. "Follow me, please."

I follow Someone as best I can without being able to see around my tottering pyramid of cutlery, and I do so stunningly, as I only fall over twelve times and drop about five cutleries.

"Thank you for being so cooperative," Someone says gratefully as he shoves me into what smells like a cave.

"I've been called cooperative before," I tell him, flattered. "That's very kind of you."

"I know, isn't it?" Someone laughs with undeserved self-satisfaction. "Please disarm now and change into this rag."

I cooperatively place my cutlery, mace, and screamy stick on the ground before me. I strip, ignoring a series of gasps that are not just Someone, but many someones— _so many twins lately!_ There are a few whistles and catcalls that are not Madanach's, and I scrounge for the rag. I put it on, and there are many disappointed sighs. Someone clears his throat and gently pushes me forward. I hear the loud squeak of a metal door opening along squeaky hinges, then the sound repeats, but as a clang of a metal door closing along squeaky hinges.

I wait patiently for something to happen. Since I am not holding my cutlery, I believe I should be seeing something unless I am surrounded by Ultimate Darkness.

"I can't see!" I yell.

"Are you blind, girl?" a different Someone hisses.

"No," I tell him, miffed. "I just can't see!"

"Then open your bloody eyes!"

"My eyes are _not_ bloody!" I shriek in terror as my eyes fly open. "Are they? Do I have to gouge them out? Gods, what is _wrong_?"

"Ugh, another crazy," the different Someone says. As usual in Skyrim, he is a Breton. He is sitting by a fire in the middle of a large cavern in which I also seem to be. I am confused by this.

"I'm Liar," I yell to the different Someone as is only polite.

"Uraccen," he yells back. "Welcome to this hellhole."

"Thank you!" I gasp. "What is this hellhole?"

"…Are you bloody deaf too?" Uraccen asks. "We're in Cidhna Mine!"

I do not remember owning Cidhna, but I smile because it is mine. "That's wonderful!" I exclaim. "You're very kind!"

Uraccen scoffs and turns back to the fire. "No one's kind in this place," he mutters.

Still delighted, I look down so that I can admire myself as is my custom, but then I screech in horror. "I am wearing a potato sack!" I yell. "Where are my clothes? Where are my weapons? Gods, where are my cutleries? I don't want to be a potato priest without even one fork!"

Uraccen looks back to me, a strange expression on his face. "We're in Cidhna Mine," he repeats, though he sounds less bloody angry this time. "It's a prison. You don't get weapons or nice clothes in prison. You get beaten and starved and belittled."

"On the honor of my eyeballs that will go bloody after looking at this potato dress, I will kill everyone who put me in here," I hiss dangerously. " _Everyone_. Every guard in this city will _die_."

"Ha…" Uraccen mutters. "Talk to our king for that."

"Okay," I say determinedly. "Where is he?"

"Past Borkul the Beast," Uraccen says dryly, pointing to an orc behind him. "Good luck."

I stride over to the orc standing guard at the mouth of a tunnel and plant myself in front of him. "I need to see your king," I tell him.

"I don't care," he growls in return.

I pout.

"Oh, don't give me that face…" he says uncertainly. "I'm not allowed to let anyone through…"

I sniffle.

"I-I'm sorry, but… I can't."

I squeeze a single tear from my beautiful, non-bloody eyeball.

Dammit, fine, fine," he sighs. He steps out of the way and I sweep past him joyfully. I head down the tunnel, past prison cells and rotting corpses and such, and eventually make it to a nice little room at the end. The room is occupied by a man bending over a desk. I clear my throat.

"Damn Borkul can't say no to a pretty girl," the man growls without looking at me, so he must have beauty sensors that allow him to telepathically determine that I am the most gorgeous of all the beautiful pretties.

"I am not a potato," I inform him as I tug at my potato dress.

With a deep sigh, the man turns around. I gasp, instantly recognizing him. "Oh, it's you," he grunts. "The scapegoat."

"…King Madanach?" I whisper in awe.

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, but otherwise nothing cracks his steadfast expression. "You're damn right it is," he growls. "You here for revenge then? Try to kill me if you dare."

I shake my head wildly, feeling the ragged, uncut ends of my hair slap me in the nose along the way. "Gods no," I breathe, unable to take my eyes off him. "I just…"

I swallow hard and consider if I should bow or curtsy or kiss his feet or just squeal happily until my throat goes hoarse. I decide to do the most practical thing and rustle up some kind of drop of decorum. I fail valiantly as I learn that someone can actually become dizzy from overwhelming joy, and I stumble backwards a few steps as my head grows a bit fuzzier than usual.

"You are my hero," I manage to whisper.

To my surprise, King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn, barks out a laugh. "No need for the bloody theatrics," he snorts. "Just tell me what you want or try to get rid of me."

"This is all I've ever wanted," I whisper thickly. "I could die right now and regret nothing in my entire short life."

This time, King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn, really does have a baffled expression in his beautiful eyes. "You're serious, eh?" His dry yet still delectable lips curve upwards just a smidgen. "What is your name, little Breton?"

"You… want to know my name?" I gasp and clap my hands in front of my mouth in shock. "I… I'm…" I swallow hard, trying with all my might to remember my name, but I have become completely dumbstruck. "I'm… uh…"

King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn waits patiently for me to regain my relative coherence, but it takes me a few more seconds to become somewhat functional again.

"I'm L-Liar," I finally manage to stammer out. Mentally, I curse myself. I am not making the best impression on one of the people I admire most in the world.

King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn seems a bit amused by my answer, as he gives me a small, rather mocking smile. "Out of anything you could have said, that convinced me you're telling the truth." Flattered even though I am not certain why, I stammer out some form of thanks, and he actually grins fully. "So, if you're not a spy and you're not here to kill me, what exactly do you want?"

"Uh…" I shake my head to rid it of the probably metaphorical cobwebs, but my mind is even more blank than usual. "I… I don't remember," I admit, still staring at him with wide, worshipful eyes. "I just… I never thought I'd meet you… the greatest war hero and tactician of all time… in real life. And you're talking to me. I'm talking to you. Oh gods…" I again clap my hands over my mouth and shake my head back and forth, holding back tears of pure joy.

King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn does not seem to know what to say for a few moments, but he gets over his temporary dumbness much more quickly than I do. "You are not Forsworn," he says gruffly. "You are not even a Nord, much less a Reachman."

I nod even more furiously than I shook my head. "All that matters is that you and all the Forsworn… you have never given up. You don't forget who you are and you don't lose hope in who you can be. You took your home back once from the Empire and ruled it beautifully until that twat Ulfric showed up to make the Reach shit again, but you…" I sigh longingly as he stares with an impassive expression. "You are… my biggest inspiration… in the world."

"Hm," he murmurs thoughtfully, rubbing his chin without once even moving his gaze. That in itself is damn impressive.

"I named my cat after you," I blurt out enthusiastically, and he blinks in shock. "His name is Madanach, the King in Fuzz, True Lord of the Fursworn." I lift my Madanach, the King in Fuzz, True Lord of the Fursworn off my head, who gives me a meow of disapproval from being woken from his nap, and show him to King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn, who does not meow because he was not napping.

King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn breaks out into laughter. I watch him with a vacant, amazed smile on my face as I wonder how in Oblivion I could be so lucky to have been put into Cidhna Mine.

"I had no idea you were here," I admit mournfully when his mirth subsides. "I knew you've been imprisoned for almost as long as I've been alive, but I could never remember where. If so, I would've done whatever I did to get in here much earlier."

"You do know that I framed you for murder, don't you?" King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn says slowly, his eyes narrowed with an almost feral glint. "My people killed all those innocents. I set up those assassinations, and you were blamed for them."

"I… honestly can't remember," I admit. "I don't actually remember how I got here and I've killed so many people that I should be in prison ten times over, so it hardly matters." I grin at him admiringly. "And you're managing to assassinate people while in prison?" I remark. "Incredible!" I just barely keep myself from clapping my hands giddily and squealing like a dying piglet. "I would happily assassinate people for you either way," I add eagerly. "In fact, I'd do just about anything for you!" I pause for a moment, thinking through those words more thoroughly. "Well, except maybe sexual favors because I will be marrying Odahviing soon."

"Oh, really?" King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn inquires with a nasty grin. "Let's test that. Kill Grisvar the Unlucky, who—"

"Okay!" I laugh, then rush out of the room giddily. I dash through the tunnels and skid to a stop in front of Borking Beast. "Do you know where Gristle the Un-plucky is?" I ask breathlessly.

"What?" he asks.

I sigh exaggeratedly and roll my eyes. "Grisvar. The. Unlucky," I repeat so that even this imbecile can understand.

"Grisvar?" The orc points down another tunnel. "He's—"

I dash down that tunnel, snatching a pickaxe on the way, and skid to a stop when I see a pair of sad-looking people sitting against the tunnel wall. "Which one of you is Greg the Mucky?" I growl.

"What?" one of them asks.

I sigh exaggeratedly and roll my eyes. "Grisvar. The. Unlucky," I repeat so that even _this_ imbecile can understand.

He raises his hand. "I'm—"

I stab him through the throat with the pickaxe and the other man runs away screaming. Job complete, I trot back into the large cave, swinging my pickaxe delightedly and ignoring the people who gape at me. I pass Brother Burkel and rush to King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn.

"Done!" I inform him proudly the moment I step past the threshold.

"That was… efficient," King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn says, looking almost proud of me— _or_ _maybe it's just my wishful thinking…_ "Okay," he says after clearing his throat. "Er…"

"Would you like me to help you escape from prison?" I offer enthusiastically. "I can do that without a problem!"

"What?" he asks.

I pull a lockpick out of my hair that I had discovered when I had picked up Madanach, The King in Fuzz, True Lord of the Fursworn to show to King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn. "I'll just unlock the gate and you can kill everyone!"

"We don't have weapons," King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn reminds me.

"I have pickaxes," I remind him back. " _I'll_ kill everyone. I promised I would, after all."

"I already have an escape—"

"I'll be right back!" I squeal before rushing back through the tunnel, past all of my new friends sitting around the campfire and that one orc, and to the squeaky metal grate gate. I open it happily and shove my pickaxe through a guard before she even notices what has happened. The second guard screams but shuts up when he gets a pickaxe in the head. I vomit a little when I notice all the blood spurting about. "I killed the guards!" I yell back to my friends. I open a chest nearby and glance inside. "There's also a chest with weapons and armour in it!" I add.

All of my prisoner friends creep up and stare at me with shocked expressions as I brandish my reacquired mace, screamy stick, and clothes. Finally, King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn himself emerges from his tunnel and joins the staring party. "…Well," he says, "that was unexpected." He looks at Uraccen. "Find Kaie and bring our reinforcements," he orders. He gazes at the shocked prisoners and suddenly laughs. "I have a new favorite outsider, my brothers!" he shouts, and I color with pride. "Let's take back our home! The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" Uraccen repeats in a yell, and the others quickly follow suit. I cheer as well, and Madanach meows his cheer from atop my head. "The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

With a squeal of delight, I rip off my potato sack and dress in my wonderful clothes again. I next gesture to the chest with a flourish and the prisoners file up to outfit themselves with armour and weapons. Uraccen leaves first, dropping into a sneaky crouch and rushing away without the guards seeing him, presumably to go get that Kaie fellow. Everyone else roars a battle cry and runs out of Cidhna Mine with their weapons brandished high. I follow delightedly and begin bashing guards with my mace or the screamy stick. King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn seems pleased with my violence, so I just keep massacring guards.

"Ma'dran!" I call out when I see some unusual movement in front of one of the buildings. I recognize that black shrouded outfit he had been wearing when I first met him. He has not used it ever since introducing himself as actual Khajiit, so I am curious as to why he is wearing it now.

Ma'dran is holding someone down, crouched on top of the man's body like a deadly predator, and then slashes open the man's throat with wickedly sharp claws. He looks up when he hears me, and I close my eyes so that I do not see all the blood.

"Ma'dran, hello!" I yell happily as I rush towards him. "I missed you!"

"Be careful!" Ma'dran gasps, and I open my eyes to see that I had nearly leaped off of a staircase and onto the hard stone below.

"You saved my life," I tell Ma'dran seriously, and he blinks.

"Liar has saved our lives many times, has she not?" Ma'dran says softly in reply. He looks around at the abject chaos and lowers his hood so I can see his face.

"Wait, is that a Kha—" The only guard that notices Ma'dran has his brains splattered across my mace before he can even finish noticing Ma'dran.

"You!" King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn roars nearby. I turn to smile at him, but he is glaring daggers at Ma'dran. He stalks forwards with two axes raised, and I skitter in front of Ma'dran before he can get too close. King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn looks at me with a snarl. "Get away, Outsider," he says.

"Not if you want to hurt Ma'dran," I tell him fiercely. "If you want to hurt my friend, then I will _execute_ you."

King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn frowns at me and eyes Ma'dran for a few moments, but he eventually relaxes his stance. "The Khajiit is your friend?" he growls to me.

I nod furiously.

"...Fine," he says. "I'll forgive him for killing Thonar Silver-Blood, then."

"Oh, did you want him alive?" I ask genially. I point to the corpse spurting blood from its neck and hold back a wave of nausea. "He might still be alive."

"Nah," King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn says gruffly. "I wanted him dead. I just wanted to kill him myself. I had a few things to say to the bastard." He eyes me with a grudgingly appreciative look. "You said that I'm your hero, didn't you, Outsider?" he asks.

I nod furiously.

"And yet you would kill me to keep your friend from being hurt?"

I nod even more furiously.

"Hmph. Good. Stay loyal to your people," he states. "My people and I will be in Druadach Redoubt. Visit whenever you want… Liar." He holds out something as I gaze at him dazedly. "Take this, girl," he snaps when I do not move. I take it on reflex, and he gives me a stiff nod. "You have made an ally of all the Forsworn. Wear this so that they know not to harm you. Find me if you ever need help."

I nod furiously once again. His face breaks into a smile and he turns away, raising his axes high. "The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" he shouts, and the resounding cheers reinforce his call. With me still in awe, King Madanach, the King in Rags, True Lord of the Forsworn rushes away to keep killing the people of this city.

I look at my hands to find an adorable little circlet made of various animal fangs held together by a thin silver chain. I place it upon my head, and it lands on Madanach, who meows unhappily.

"That is a bracelet, friend," Ma'dran chimes in softly. I correct the circlet's position so that it winds around my left wrist, my mace-wielding wrist, and gaze at it proudly. "I am glad to see you," Ma'dran says.

I look up at him, and he looks sad, so I pick up Madanach and offer the kitten to him. Ma'dran smiles slightly and picks up Madanach. Madanach begins to purr as he kneads his little kitten claws on Ma'dran's arm, and Ma'dran begins to pet him gently.

"My prey is dead," Ma'dran says, but he does not sound happy about it, which does not make sense.

"Why are you sad about that?" I inquire.

"None of my caravan survived," he replies simply. I sit down on the nearby steps and gesture that Ma'dran join me. He does, and so I gaze at him expectantly. _What would I do if Fenri and dad and Evoshin died? I would be very sad._ "It seems that Ma'jhad—one of the caravan's guards—snuck into this city and stole from the Silver-Blood family. Thus, the Silver-Blood hired mercenaries to… kill us all and retrieve his stolen items."

"I'm happy you got to kill him," I tell Ma'dran, "but I'm sad that your family isn't here anymore."

"I as well," Ma'dran says. He curls his hands, sheathing and unsheathing his claws aimlessly. "I have no one left."

"You have me and Madanach and Shadowmere," I remind him, and he looks up with a slight smile.

"That I do, Liar my friend," he replies.

"You can keep traveling with me if you want," I add hopefully.

"…I would enjoy that."

I smile happily, delighted by this strange day, as Ma'dran, Madanach, and I watch the Forsworn annihilate the population.

"Where are we?" I abruptly interrupt the peaceful scene, only now realizing that I do not remember leaving the Mountain of the Beard. "And how did I get here?"

For some reason, Ma'dran begins to laugh, and much more loudly that I have ever heard him laugh before. I wait patiently for his answer until I forget the question. With a yawn that could rival Madanach's, I tip over and decide to sleep with my head resting on Ma'dran's lap.


	18. Goat-Infested Mutations and Most Effecti

_well, hello there! been a long time w/no see. hopefully i can remedy that. school's a bitch, but i tri. this is a skiparoo chapter, but it was fun to write. it just took months to write._

* * *

18\. Goat-Infested Mutations and Most Effective Ruminations

* * *

"And after the mutated pig-goats feasted on the hearts of the vampires, they absorbed the powers of the Silver Hand and proceeded to annihilate the werewolves before leaping a bonfire to kill themselves out of honor," Ma'dran explains as I nod along, trying to look interested. "And that is almost everything that happened last night."

"Okay, but how did I get _here_?" I ask, gesturing to the corpse-strewn streets of Marketland.

"…Shadowmere," Ma'dran says.

"Ohh," I gasp, vaguely remembering that I have used Shadowmere to travel at times. _I wonder if he's ever climbed a mountain.._. "That makes sense. Why didn't you just say that?"

"…You decimated the population of the werewolves, vampires, and Silver Hand in one night," Ma'dran reminds me slowly. "Does that not merit some explanation?"

"Is Shimmy More in the stables?" I inquire. That would make as much sense as Ma'dran's words, which are very clear and require no further explanation. Ma'dran underestimates my understanding of words. _Languages have those,_ I realize vaguely.

"Ehm… yes," Ma'dran says. "That is… where you left him."

"Okay!" I cry happily, delighted by the prospect of meeting an actual horse. "Let's go get him! I want to give him a hug."

"Ahh…" Ma'dran shakes his head morosely and changes direction. "This one and Liar should make one more stop before exiting the city," he says in a defeated sort of tone.

"Will it take long?" I ask worriedly, and Ma'dran shakes his head.

"In truth," Ma'dran says as we both step over the corpse of a guard, "Ma'dran wishes he could have… done more to prevent some of the activities of last night, but Liar was not very… receptive."

"Oh?" I inquire. "I'm usually receptive and three-quarters when I'm drunk—that _is_ what happened, right?"

"Indeed. You were coherent but exceptionally enthusiastic, and that Sam encouraged you to follow your every whim. Unfortunately, you listened to him more than you did Ma'dran."

"Then the alcohol must've been magicked," I tell him with fierce confidence. "I would never ever, ever, _ever_ listen to an unknown friend instead of you. Not even for three quarters. Of a septim. Or a pig, because those cost more than three quarters."

"This one appreciates your words," Ma'dran says, "and does believe you are correct. Now, we have arrived."

"A temple of Mara?" I ask quizzically, gazing at the building, and Ma'dran nods. Without further ado, he opens the door and ushers me inside.

"Don't kill me!" someone immediately shrieks. "I'm definitely, absolutely, without a doubt, a Forsworn supporter! I'm totally happy that you've liberated us, you barbarians—er, sorry, independent citizens of your legally established rightful city-state."

"That's good," I say happily.

"It is Ma'dran from last night," Ma'dran calls out. "This one has brought Liar. She does not remember what happened."

"Eh?" A priestess—of Mara, presumably—peeks out from behind a table at the far end of the room like a sad baby deer whose mother had just been gently thrown off a cliff and eaten by healthy stray dogs. She grimaces the moment her eyes alight on me. "You again," she mutters, unlike a baby deer. "Delightful."

"I won't eat a baby deer," I assure her.

"Well, that's just… grand," the priestess says nervously as I wave my mace around in boredom. "Um, well, last night you married the cat," she explains. "It was the strangest ceremony I've ever performed."

"Cat is a slur for a Khajiit," I inform her unhappily. I heft my mace over my shoulder, and the priestess ducks behind the table again.

"No, the _cat_ ," she repeats in a trembling voice.

"Cat is a slur for a Khajiit!" I inform her even more unhappily. "You're being terribly rude."

"No, not the Khajiit!" the priestess sobs. "The _cat_."

"Cat is a slur—"

"She means Madanach," Ma'dran chimes in dryly.

"The Reach-King?"

"No, the kitten."

I lift Madanach from my head and gaze into his adorable yellow eyes. "Hello, husband," I tell him gravely. "You will need to get a job."

Madanach meows unhappily and squirms a tad.

"Madanach is unhappy with this arrangement," I scold the priestess, "and I am betrothed to Odahviing. Undo this posthaste."

"I didn't want to do it in the first place!" the priestess wails, her head sticking out from behind the table once again. "I looked and looked, but there's only a law against marrying male goats under the scant light of the waning crescent moon! Ugh, but there is a clause that allows divorce if the spouses were clearly drunk when they got married. You seemed perfectly fine—if a bit overly-excited about everything—but the kitten was clearly inebriated, the poor thing."

"Do the divorce, then," I tell her with tears filling my beautiful eyes.

"Er… okay," the priestess replies. "Um…" She shuffles through the desk and pulls out a paper. She clears her throat. "By the power vested in me by Mara…" She rips up the paper. "There," she says. "No evidence you were ever married."

"It was a good marriage," I sniffle, hugging Madanach to my chest tightly. I hear his muffled meow of agreement, then I pull him away to kiss him on the nose. "I will always love you," I say gravely, and he offers me another meow.

"Let us leave this dangerous city now," Ma'dran offers as I use Madanach's fuzz to wipe the tears from my eyes, and his beautiful fluff gives me another set of eyelashes. "That was much easier to reverse than this one had suspected." I nod joyfully and place Madanach on my head.

"I'm going to petition to add some extra clauses in the law," the priestess mutters as we leave. "Mara's sake, these past couple days have been a damn nightmare…"

"You should have a more positive outlook on life," I advise her from the doorway. "My big sister says that positivity works wonders for a healthy complexion."

"You must be very positive, then," the priestess comments as she inspects me with a soft frown.

"Why, thank you!" I beam. "If you're much too sad to be a positivity guru, then just bathe in the blood of your enemies," I add. "Fenri says it's the best way to become happy, but I just throw up unhappily, so that doesn't work for me."

"…Please leave," the priestess says with a queasy expression.

I wave to her boisterously, but she exudes no healthy positivity. I do not expect her to have a complexion if she keeps this up, but neither does Ma'dran, so she might turn into a Khajiit, which would be nice for her. I am about to compliment her on her good thinking, when the world seems to shake with the power of a Shout:

" _Mul… Viik… Kest…_ "

The Shout takes a moment to register in my mind, but the moment I realize what it means, I shriek and bounce up and down, surprising both Ma'dran and the kitten sitting on my head. Madanach digs his claws in as to not fall off, but I do not acknowledge the pain. I jump more and clap my hands delightedly.

"Uncle Paarthy wants to see me!" I squeal. "We've gotta go back to _Monahven_!"

"Oh… the very cold place?" Ma'dran asks rather unhappily. He sighs but stands up as well. He casts his gaze around, dispassionately taking in the city of corpses and Forsworn stragglers looting. "Ma'dran supposes it is bad manners to keep a dragon waiting."

"Let's go!" I laugh as I clap my hands eagerly.

xXxXxXx

"Alduin is growing stronger," Paarthurnax tells me in Dovahzul the moment I dismount Shadowmere at the top of the top of the mountaintop. "He is preparing to enter Sovenghard and absorb all the souls of the dead. His power will increase until he can destroy the world in one fell swoop."

That sounds all well and good to me, but I have more important matters to take care of. "Do you know if Sahloknir is okay?" I ask Paarthurnax fretfully.

Paarthurnax narrows his eyes at me and tilts his head to the side confusedly. "The destruction of your world—"

"I'm worried about Sahloknir!" I cry insistently.

"The fate of—"

"Sahloknir was supposed to eat Ellis the Idiotic Idiot," I persevere, "but he obviously didn't because you told me that Ellis the Stupid-face was still alive, and now I'm upset!"

"Listen," Paarthurnax rumbles, "everyone you know will—"

"I was too distracted to ask last time, and I feel awful!"

Paarthurnax sighs heavily and lifts his head to the sky. " _Sah… Lok… Nir!"_ he bellows, the ground shaking with the force of the Shout. Paarthurnax turns to me again. "While we wait for him, will you listen to me?"

"Oh!" I gasp. "I thought you were talking to…" I look around for the other person he must have been speaking to, but there is only Shadowmere munching on the corpse of an arctic rabbit. "Okay, I'm trying to be listening," I tell Paarthurnax determinedly.

"Alduin is almost at full power," Paarthurnax says urgently as I totter on my feet, trying not to doze off from all the words that have been floating about lately, "and the Dragonborn knows not a single Shout. He has only absorbed one dragon's soul and—"

"Sahloknir's?" I shriek.

"…No," Paarthurnax replies. "The one at Whiterun. The entire reason we know he is the Dragonborn at all."

I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief. If Ellis Reedramble of House Idiotic Idiocy had murdered Sahloknir for no reason except the threat of being torn apart and devoured, I would have cried so hard that I would have created an entirely new mountain out of the ice from my frozen tears.

"Let me try this a different way," Paarthurnax murmurs. He gazes at me intently and lowers his head so that we can make eye contact at the same height. "Do you have family, Mulviikest?"

I brighten immediately and clap my hands, delighted to tell him all about my family. "My father is Rallos and he's a merchant and so, so amazing and my brother is Evoshin and he's a mercenary and super, super smart and my sister is Fenri and she's an assassin pledged to Boethia and very, very wonderful."

"Do you love them?" Paarthurnax asks next.

"Yes!" I cry, almost offended that he had to ask. "They are my favorites in the entirety of everything!"

"Good," Paarthurnax says. "Now, do you have friends?"

"Delvin, Brynjolf, Keerava, Cynric, Fenri, soup, Sahloknir, Eola, Ted, Evoshin, Sheogorath, Rallos, Robert, that dragon whose name I don't know, Ma'dran, Namira, pot roast, Shiv Mud, the murder child, Madanach, Madanach, Hadvar, Sam, Uraccen, honey, Borking the Boob, strawberries, all the animals of the forest, all the dragons of the forest and the water and the sky and the mountains and the fields, all the soups, the city, and everyone else I forgot," I reply confidently.

There is a long pause.

"You could have just said 'yes,'" Paarthurnax eventually says.

"Yes," I say happily.

"My point, however," Paarthurnax continues, "is that all of them will die if you do not stop Alduin."

"What…?" I ask, having difficulty comprehending such a thing.

"Every single one of those people will no longer exist alongside you," Paarthurnax confirms gently.

I am dumbfounded for many moments as I try to imagine a world where all of those people are no longer existing alongside me. It is a very sad world.

"Do you see now how important it is to stop Alduin?"

I nod dumbly, still not recovered.

Paarthurnax sighs and nudges me with his nose. "I am sorry for forcing you to choose a side like this," he says, "but it is necessary."

"Okay," I say without a beat of hesitation. "If anyone tries to hurt my friends or family, they get a bashed skull, even if it's my Lord Alduin."

"Thank you, child."

I stand up straight and cross my arms determinedly. "What are your orders, Uncle Paarthy?" I ask valiantly.

"Well, we first need to stop the war between the rebels and the Empire," Paarthurnax begins, "then we must convince Odahviing to rebel,"—I squeal with delight—"and then we must kill Alduin."

I wait patiently, but Paarthurnax says nothing more. "Only three things?" I ask confusedly. "That's easy! How many bee mansions should we burn?"

"So this is where you are hiding, traitor!" a beautifully familiar voice roars from above, interrupting Paarthurnax's beautifully familiar voice. "Alduin will finally be rid of you when I rend your flesh from your bones and crush your skeleton to dust!"

Sahloknir swoops down and roars, his maw glowing with blue magic, and I squeal happily, waving my arms back and forth as I hop up and down enthusiastically. Sahloknir stops short and closes his mouth with a surprised snort the moment he notices me. He hovers above the mountaintop for a moment, then lands opposite to Paarthurnax.

"Hello, Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," Sahloknir rumbles. He dodges my frantic attempt to hug him around the nose, so I hug his neck instead. Sahloknir's body shudders with a deep sigh, and he nudges me away with his head after a moment.

"I was so worried!" I fret, near tears. "I heard the idiot dragonborn was still alive, and I thought maybe somehow he used some dirty trick to hurt you because he's weak and pathetic and he must have cheated to escape and all that! Also, I hate him!"

Sahloknir huffs and shuffles his feet as though embarrassed. "I was so hungry that I did not pay attention to my surroundings," he admits. "The other human—the female one that yelled a lot—awoke and stabbed me in the leg. By the time I killed and ate her, the Dragonborn had already escaped his bonds."

"It was my fault," I realize with the hazy memory that I had tried to decapitate a woman who yelled a lot. "I thought I murdered her face…"

"You are not to blame," Sahloknir assures me kindly. "Her face was indeed disfigured nearly beyond recognition, and I _did_ get to eat." I beam at him, then at Paarthurnax. Sahloknir follows my gaze and growls softly. Paarthurnax has a mournful expression on his face as he gazes back at Sahloknir.

"My kin, I do not wish to fight," Paarthurnax says calmly, and Sahloknir snarls. I look to him disapprovingly.

"You are my friend and Uncle Paarthy is my Uncle Paarthy," I rebuke the furious dragon. "You ought to be friends too. And you're family!" I realize with a loud gasp. "No one hates their family! That's just impossible!"

"Paarthurnax _betrayed_ his family!" Sahloknir roars. "Do you know how sad we all were? You just…" Sahloknir trails off and glances away. "You just _left_ ," he mumbles. "No goodbyes, nothing."

"You all… missed me?" Paarthurnax asks slowly. Sahloknir does not answer, but he still does not meet Paarthurnax's gaze. "I am sorry," Paarthurnax murmurs humbly. "Alduin chased me off the moment I proposed the option of not murdering every other creature in the world."

Sahloknir glances up in surprise. "Alduin just… chased you off?" he echoes. "He said you abandoned us!"

"I wanted only to talk," Paarthurnax reveals. "He did not give me the chance."

Sahloknir looks around uncertainly, then turns his face to me. "You trust Paarthurnax?" Sahloknir asks me.

I sniffle, unable to prevent the deluge of tears from freezing onto my cheeks. "Yes!" I wail. "He gave me unmelting snow and promised to marry me and Odahviing!"

"Er…" Paarthurnax interjects.

"And you, Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," Sahloknir says, ignoring Paarthurnax, "have you truly decided to fight against Lord Alduin?"

I hesitate for a moment but eventually nod firmly.

"…Fine," Sahloknir sighs. "For a proper rebellion, however, we need Odahviing's support."

"I'm gonna marry him!" I remind Sahloknir happily. "Then he'll be family and will help us all 'cause family always loves each other."

Sahloknir and Paarthurnax trade a glance while I drool dreamily. "To kill Alduin, however, we need the Dragonborn," Paarthurnax says next, and I snarl just as fiercely as Sahloknir did a couple minutes ago.

"Easy. We can just kidnap him and try not to eat him," Sahloknir says dismissively. "I'm sure Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu could do that without a problem."

"No," Paarthurnax rumbles thoughtfully. "The Dragonborn is very accomplished at running away or escaping at the last moment… we need someone he trusts to lead him to us…"

I tilt my head to the side and thoughtfully rub my chin like a certain king named after my kitten. "If that person exists, she or he or it or he or she must have a name…"

xXxXxXx

Lydia wanted to scream at the top of her lungs and slam her head into a brick wall.

"Is this satisfactory, my thane?" Lydia instead inquired, valiantly managing to keep her voice steady and controlled when all she wanted to do was kick that self-important, pathetic excuse for a thane—never mind a Dragonborn—in his probably pitifully tiny family jewels.

"Tell the unworthy servant to move it to the left," the irritating waste of air instructed the woman, Jordis, standing beside him.

" _Serjo_ Elliyas of the magnanimous House Redoran, esteemed Thane of Whiterun and Solitude, and heroic Dragonborn, asks that you move the portrait to the left," Jordis said blandly.

"I do not ask!" Elliyas screeched. "I _command_!" Also, you forgot one of my titles. Try again—and succeed this time, else I forbid you to eat for the rest of the year!"

Jordis' eye twitched, betraying her deep frustration, but she remained tranquil as she addressed Lydia again. " _Serjo_ Elliyas of the magnanimous House Redoran, esteemed Thane of Whiterun and Solitude, heroic Dragonborn, and distinguished savior of Skyrim—"

Elliyas cleared his throat pointedly.

"The distinguished savior of all of Tamriel but especially the barbaric wilderness known as Skyrim," Jordis corrected herself in a low growl, " _commands_ you to move the portrait to the left."

Lydia moved the portrait to the left.

"Farther to the right," Elliyas said.

Jordis took a deep breath. " _Serjo_ Elliyas of—"

Lydia impatiently moved the portrait to the right. Jordis gave Lydia a grateful glance while Elliyas glowered.

"You must wait to be addressed!" Elliyas cried furiously. He stamped his foot like a petulant child and crossed his arms. "Luckily for you, I am a merciful lord," he said. "Hang my portrait there and go sit outside."

Lydia remained where she was.

"Unworthy servant!" Elliyas yelled. "Do as your lord commands!"

"…Oh, are you talking to me?" Lydia asked with innocent surprise. "I thought you weren't going to address me directly since I beat you in a sparring match."

Elliyas blanched and swiftly spun to face Jordis. "Tell the unworthy servant that I am refusing to bless her with my blessed attention because she _definitely_ cheated during that sparring match!"

Jordis tossed a glare at Lydia, who offered an apologetic smile in response. Jordis opened her mouth, paused, then smirked. "This dillweed accuses you of cheating," she said simply.

"That is _not_ what I said!" Elliyas shrieked. "Address me by my proper title!"

"This dillweed says that that's not what he said and also to address him by his proper title," Jordis said, and Lydia bit back a giggle.

"You…" Elliyas fumed and glanced between Jordis and Lydia. "No meals for seven years," he ordered, "and sleep outside!"

"This dillweed says that we get no meals for seven years and to sleep outside."

"Imbeciles!" Elliyas yelled. "Go outside!"

"This dillweed says—"

"Go outside!"

"—to go outside."

A ghost of a smile crossed Jordis' lips when Elliyas stamped out of the room, muttering in Dunmeri, and Lydia watched him with a wide grin.

"Genius," she praised Jordis after hanging the newest portrait of Elliyas on the wall. It was surrounded by six others of the man in different positions and varied expressions. Jordis and Lydia shared a glance and stepped outside of Proudspire Manor, sitting next to each other on the stairs outside.

"I don't think I can do this much longer," Jordis said mournfully after a moment of pensive silence. "I dream of murdering him every single night and daydream of murdering him every single day."

"Me too…" Lydia sighed, her good humor fading into deep resentment towards her sworn master.

"Do you think he'll have the courtesy to die on his own?" Jordis asked hopefully. "Honestly, I'm running out of patience."

"He hasn't had much courtesy about anything so far," Lydia mumbled in response, and Jordis groaned. "I don't understand how he even became Thane of Whiterun, never mind Solitude," Lydia said, trying to change the subject before Jordis snapped and chopped Elliyas' head off.

"He's not really Thane of Solitude," Jordis said. "He just bribed the steward with so much money that he was named thane and bought Proudspire. Is he actually Thane of Whiterun?"

Lydia nodded sadly. "There was a dragon nearby," she explained, "and he showed up just as it died to absorb its soul. He was named thane that very second even though everyone who fought the dragon said that he didn't deserve it. He bought Breezehome, said it was a pathetic hovel, and transferred me here."

"I'm sorry," Jordis said sympathetically, "but, honestly, I'm so glad that I'm not alone with him anymore. Thank you so much for helping me stay sane."

Lydia patted Jordis on the shoulder. "You too," she said.

There was a companionable silence as the pair gazed out into the sunset. Lydia missed Whiterun, the grass and trees and friendly people. The large city of Solitude had none of these. People were always bustling about, too busy to stop for a chat, and no one knew anyone else's name. The presence of the Blue Palace was more intimidating to Lydia than reassuring, and her thane was a pain in the ass. Jordis was the only thing keeping Lydia remotely stable.

"You know," Jordis began thoughtfully, "I heard of a woman who has sworn herself as the Dragonborn's nemesis."

Lydia stared at Jordis in surprise and leaned her chin on one fist. "I've heard that too," she whispered conspiratorially. "I thought it was just a rumor."

Jordis shook her head and scooted towards Lydia until they were brushing arms. "I saw her try to kill him," she said, jerking her head towards Proudspire. "It took three men to hold her back."

Lydia whistled appreciatively and stared out into the city. "What else do you know about her?" she asked.

"Well… she's really, _really_ pretty," Jordis admitted. "I mean, absolutely gorgeous. Stunning. I've never seen anyone more—"

"Okay, I get it," Lydia grumbled. "Anything else more… important?"

"A lot of it's unbelievable rumors," Jordis said. "Things like she eats people and single-handedly destroyed the Dark Brotherhood."

"That's ridiculous," Lydia scoffed, but she did still feel a chill run through her at the thought of those rumors being remotely true.

"I agree," Jordis said, "but she must be impressive if those are the kinds of rumors circulating."

"That's true…" Lydia mused. She bit her lip. "You think… she, uh… wants any help?" she asked Jordis carefully.

"You read my mind," Jordis stated, clearly relieved by Lydia's answer. "I mean… we're clearly not the only ones who think he should be… er… somewhere else, so we can't be all wrong…"

"I mean, at some point, you would rather let the world be eaten by a dragon than deal with him," Lydia reasoned. "How do you suppose we find this woman?"

"Well, I heard she had ties with the Thieves' Guild," Jordis said.

"So," Lydia drawled, "we drop everything and go to Riften?" Jordis watched Lydia silently, and Lydia's eyes widened. "You want to drop everything and go to Riften?" Lydia asked incredulously.

Jordis stared at her boots and shrugged.

"But…" Lydia glanced back towards Proudspire and bit her lip. "I've never been to Riften," she murmured, "and I've heard it's a pit of crime, especially since Mjoll the Huntress was mysteriously murdered…"

"Think about it," Jordis encouraged Lydia. "If you really don't want to go, I swear I won't abandon you with _him_."

Overcome with pure gratitude, Lydia sniffled. "Thank you, Jordis," she choked out. "That… that really means a lot."

"At the least, we—"

"Handmaiden slaves!" the voice that Lydia hated most in the world screamed from inside. "I require a thorough scrubbing! And tea! Twelve sugars!"

"Let's go to Riften," Lydia instantly told Jordis now that she had been reminded of the horror that was her current life.

"Are you sure?" Jordis asked carefully. "We might get a bounty for abandoning our sworn lord and thane."

"The bounty for _murdering_ our sworn lord and thane would be higher, right?" Lydia growled in response.

Jordis grinned and pushed herself to her feet, and Lydia took the proffered hand to join her. Not even Elliyas' irritable repeat of his order was enough to dampen either's excitement.

After the torture that was drawing Elliyas' bath, toweling him, and dressing him into his nightwear, Elliyas sat on his canopy bed and sulked with the cup of tea in his hands. Why, Lydia neither knew nor cared. Since Elliyas would throw a fit if she or Jordis left without dismissal, however, the two remained at his bedside.

"Handmaiden One," Elliyas said, referring to Lydia. Lydia raised an eyebrow in response. "Have you heard of a half-Dunmer woman named… Liar?" he asked.

Lydia shook her head, but Jordis stepped forwards eagerly. "I have," Jordis said.

"I did not address you, Handmaiden Two," Elliyas snapped.

There was a long stretch of silence.

"Handmaiden Two," Elliyas finally said, "have you ever heard of a half-Dunmer woman named Liar?"

"…Yes," Jordis growled.

"Good, tell me everything you know about her," Elliyas said.

"Well, she is rumored to be the sworn enemy of the Dragonborn," Jordis began, and Lydia shot her a quick glance. "She has been spotted in the company of the Thieves' Guild, a mysterious hooded figure, or a Khajiit, and is rumored to be in league with dragons and Daedra."

"I knew all that," Elliyas muttered. "Do you know anything else? Like _why_ she hates me and how she keeps finding me? And who she is? Where she came from?"

"I… doubt this is true," Jordis said slowly, "but I've heard that she rose from the depths of Oblivion itself to be Alduin's guardian."

Elliyas displayed clear terror, and he shivered in his expensive blankets. "That cannot be true," he murmured, but the uncertainty in his voice was obvious.

"She can control the minds of dragons," Jordis added.

Elliyas cringed and hugged his blankets tighter around him. "Yes…" he breathed. "I have… seen her speak to the beasts as though she were one…"

"I heard she's impervious to all elements and physically indestructible," Lydia said with a tiny smirk.

Elliyas shuddered.

"And that her steed is made of pure darkness," Jordis chimed in.

"Enough," Elliyas said, sounding close to tears. He blinked at Lydia and Jordis, then schooled his expression into its usual arrogance. "Handmaiden slaves," he snapped, "I order you to find this half-blood abomination. Do not return until she is dead!"

Jordis glowered and opened her mouth angrily, but Lydia spoke first. "So," she said, "you want us to leave… and stay gone… as long as that girl is alive."

"Yes!"

Lydia gave Jordis a pointed look. "We should go find her and not come back here… until the day she dies."

Jordis slowly grinned as she understood Lydia. "We have your permission to leave?" Jordis eagerly asked Elliyas.

Elliyas harrumphed. "Permission? No, I _order_ you to find the woman. You shall leave posthaste."

"As you command, my thane," Lydia and Jordis said happily.


	19. Cat

19\. Cat.

* * *

Madanach, King in Fuzz, True Lord of the Fursworn delicately groomed his tiny, fragile left paw with his small, pink tongue. Liar had been lucid enough to unlock High Hrothgar for Ma'dran and himself before she journeyed up the mountain on Shadowmere, so Madanach was contentedly warm. The nice friend, Ma'dran, had been ushered away to be interrogated by the hooded Greybeards because of a murder or something worthless like that, so Madanach was nothing but a hidden spot of darkness inside this dim yet warm monastery. He wished he were with his master, of course, as she could always be in danger, but those winds had been too strong even for him.

After all, Madanach was just a tiny, innocent kitten hiding away in the pitch darkness in which he thrived.

"Aha, there you are," that otherwordly creature, Sam Guevenne, said as he sauntered towards the supposedly hidden Madanach.

Madanach just barely bit back a hiss; he did not trust 'Sam.' There was something lurking beneath the surface, something powerful, something Daedric. It was like that drink he had given Liar the other day. Madanach had sensed the dark magic in the liquid and had stupidly tried to get his master to spit it out, only ending up under its spell himself. He had very few memories of the night before last, and that was disturbing. Madanach was not to be caught off-guard again.

"I hoped you would be back," 'Sam' said with a grin.

'Sam' sat down cross-legged in front of Madanach, who glanced around for the trusty Ma'dran. The Khajit was nowhere to be found—probably still deeper inside High Hrothgar. Madanach was alone.

"Oh, come on," 'Sam' huffed at Madanach. "I can sense what you are just as well as you can sense what I am. Give up the act for a second. I want to chat."

Madanach meowed as a tiny, innocent kitten ought to and began delicately cleaning behind his small, velvety ears.

'Sam' blew out his lips in a heavy sigh and leaned back onto his hands. "If I had to guess… you're one of Sheogorath's. Who else would send a Dremora as a kitten?"

Madanach yawned widely and folded his paws underneath himself, prepared to nap just as a tiny, innocent kitten ought to.

"Ugh, I hate resorting to such boring measures," 'Sam' sighed, "but if you don't talk to me, then I'll turn your pretty little master into an inebriated duck of pure sexual energy."

Madanach froze and slowly raised his eyes to meet 'Sam's triumphant gaze. This was no simple Daedric entity, Madanach slowly realized, and then he understood. He cursed his own stupidity for not realizing sooner: Sam Guevenne. Sanguine. Madanach was facing a potentially hostile Daedric Prince.

Madanach prepared himself, terrified as he was. He needed to keep his beloved master safe.

"That's better," Sanguine said with a smirk. "You ready to talk?" Madanach stood up and flicked his tail from side to side. He meowed loudly, and Sanguine frowned. "Don't tell me you can't… Wait, did Sheogorath actually turn you into a kitten?" he realized. "Can you not change shape?"

Madanach nodded, paused, then shook his head.

"Er… hold up," Sanguine said. He rested his palms against his knees, then took a deep breath.

 **Is this better?** Sanguine's voice echoed through Madanach's head. Madanach yelped and looked around furiously, but Sanguine had not moved. **Just think your words,** Sanguine said.

 **Er… hello?** Madanach tentatively thought.

"I knew it!" Sanguine cheered aloud, exuberantly enough that the sound hurt Madanch's sensitive ears. "Haha, that's hilarious! My little brother Sheogorath is a funny one all right."

 **What do you _want_? **Madanach asked exasperatedly. **Why are you interested in this at all?**

"Eh, I'm not really that interested," Sanguine admitted. "I just had to confirm my hunch. It was bothering me to Oblivion and back. Hey, you should join my court," he suggested eagerly. "I could turn you back into your original form, and you can forget traipsing around in this marvelously boring world. Everyone's too scared of dragons to have parties right now… You'd think the imminent end of the world would produce the opposite effect, but humans always disappoint." Sanguine sighed heavily. "Well?" he asked. "Whaddya say?"

 **Never!** Madanach shouted, deeply offended. **I will absolutely never leave my master!**

"Sheogorath?" Sanguine huffed. "He'll forget you ever existed—he's probably forgotten you already."

 **No, my _master!_ **Madanach snapped.

"What… the mortal?" Sanguine asked, shocked.

 **Of course!**

"…Why? You're a Dremora. Dremora don't care about mortals."

 **I must protect her during her life and her death!** Madanach cried.

"Ohh, I guess you can't defy my little brother's orders," Sanguine mused.

 **This isn't about Lord Sheogorath,** Madanach hissed. **This is about my master! She's amazing!**

"…Huh?"

 **There's** **no one else I'd rather serve,** Madanach stated.

"Huh?"

 **Why's this so difficult to understand?** Madanach asked frustratedly. **I love her!**

"Aha, I see," Sanguine said with a snicker. "A Dremora and a human… Tragic, but entertaining."

Confused by Sanguine's sudden change in attitude, Madanach stared at the Prince in silence. It took a few moments of thought for Madanach to understand but, when he did, he bristled. **I'm not _in_ love, **he snapped, his tail twitching from side-to-side with exasperation. **I just care about her, and she cares about me!**

It was Sanguine's turn to be confused, as he tilted his head to the side. "…How old are you, little Dremora?" he asked after a moment.

Madanach shuffled his paws. **This will be my seventy-sixth winter since I was formed,** he admitted, and Sanguine grinned.

"Ah, that makes sense," Sanguine said. "You're just a little child, not yet old enough to realize that humans exist for nothing but entertainment and power. And humans?" Sanguine scoffed. "They care about nothing but pleasure and power. That's why they love me so much."

 **My master isn't like that!** Madanach protested furiously. **She doesn't use Daedra for power! Sheogorath chose _her_ , and she's never asked him for a thing!**

"So," Sanguine said craftily, "you think the human would still give a rat's ass about you if she knew what you were?"

Madanach nodded furiously.

"So cute," Sanguine laughed. "I like you."

Madanach hissed, trying to convey that he did not return the favor.

"Hmm…" Sanguine mused, a sly smile on his lips as he watched Madanach with an intensity that chilled Madanach to the bone. "Let's make a wager," Sanguine decided, and Madanach twitched his tail nervously. "If your master ever discovers what you are yet _still_ cares for you—by that, I mean she doesn't kill you, send you away, or even _yell_ at you—then I'll grant her a single boon, anything within my power. If she acts like any other human would, then I take you from your little master and from Sheogorath. You'll join _my_ court."

 **No,** Madanach retorted.

"What, you don't trust your master?"

 **Of course I trust her!** Madanach cried. **I just know you'll find a way to twist this into your favor and maybe even hurt her!**

"Oh, the adorable, naïve devotion," Sanguine sighed. "Fine, if you don't agree, then I promise I _will_ hurt her." Madanach glared furiously, inspiring another laugh from the Prince. "Oh, don't look at me like that, kiddo," he chided good-naturedly. "I just want to have a little fun! Based on the pure chaos of last night, you all will be pretty damn fun."

 **Then I agree,** Madanach said defeatedly, **as long as you swear that you won't punish or hurt her in absolutely any way.**

"I swear to it," Sanguine said with a grin of satisfaction. "Ahh, I'm so glad I found the pair of you," he said. With that, he stood up, brushed himself off, and materialized a bottle of wine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a group of old hermits to trick into having an orgy."

Madanach curled his lip while Sanguine sauntered off, singing an old tavern song, into the depths of the monastery. When Sanguine was out of sight, Madanach huffed and sat down, curling his tail daintily over his little paws. He knew that his master would never abandon him, just as he would always protect her as well as he could in this tiny body of his. Any threats—be it dragons, Daedra, mutated pig-goats, or any other nasties—would be dead before they could touch his master.

Madanach had been nothing in Oblivion, nothing but a child, a churl—the lowest of the _kynav_ —unimportant in his world. Madanach's true name had never been used, he had never been called upon to act, and he was barely acknowledged by the other _kyn_. Now, he had a purpose, someone to care for, someone to care for _him_. His master had given him a name the moment she saw him, and she had named him after her hero. To her, Madanach was important. To Madanach, she was important. He would happily be a kitten if it meant staying with her.

"Ah, there you are," the comforting purr of Ma'dran echoed through the empty room. "Come, you must be cold, little one."

Madanach trilled in happiness and rushed to Ma'dran, delightedly leaping into the Khajit's arms to snuggle against his chest. A purr rumbled in Madanach's throat, and he instantly began to feel drowsy. Ma'dran chuckled lightly while Madanach drifted into tiny, innocent kitten sleep, completely unmindful of what was happening in the rest of the world.


	20. A Great Vacation to the Nation of Nation

20\. A Great Vacation to the Nation of Nations of Expla. And Mercer.

* * *

"And so now Uncle Paarthy and Sahloknir are thinking of a way to convince my beloved Odahviing to help us kill Alduin," I explain to the dazed-looking Ma'dran and sleeping Madanach. Shadowmere was there, so he does not need to visit explanation-nation. "All I need to do is find someone who is gonna lure the stupid _dovahkiin_ to his death by _Dov_ death. _Dovahhe_ giving him death," I quickly clarify, "not him giving _dovahhe_ death. That'd be stupid and impossible 'cause he's stupid and impossible."

"I… see," Ma'dran chokes out, his eyes wide with what looks like fear but must be joy because no one should be afraid of joy. Thus, there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. "Ehm. Okay. This one will help. If he can."

"Of course!" I cry delightedly. "Let's go!"

"…Where?" Ma'dran asks slowly.

"To Riften, of course!" I laugh at the silly question. "I have people there who know people who know people who know things and there's probably someone who knows the thing that is the stupid, idiotic, stupid _dovahkiin_ with the stupid name!"

"At least Liar has a plan," Ma'dran says weakly.

"What…?" I inquire, and then my mind fills with the terrifying realization that I do, in fact, have a plan. A specific destination. A means to reach that destination. _But Shadowmere isn't mean,_ I tell myself harshly. _What a mean thing to think!_ "Think-g," I tell Ma'dran gravely, and he blinks before smiling slightly.

"Indeed," he says.

Satisfied that everyone is in agreement that I have no plan, no destination, and no mean horsie, I scramble onto my belovedly kind horsie's back, and Ma'dran is right behind me. Madanach makes a meow of complaint as he is passed from Ma'dran to me, so I kiss him on top of his fuzzy little head. Madanach meows much more happily, then falls asleep in my arms, purring.

 **Where are we headed?** Shadowmere asks me with an eager stamp of his hooves of abyssal darkness.

"I don't know," I inform him confidently.

"Riften," Ma'dran calls out from behind me.

"But Ma'dran knows," I inform Shadowmere with just as much confidence, as I had just heard Ma'dran speak a word that I vaguely recognize as a destination. _I demand an explanation for such a destination! How many words are also nations?_

With a loud whinny but no explanation or destination to be found, Shadowmere dashes forwards, his Oblivion hooves making no noise on the ground even though I wish he could crunch leaves. As always, Shadowmere takes entire minutes that are dreadfully boring, enough that I doze off. When I awake, there is a stone wall in front of me and a wooden gate on that wall. As gates tend to do, it probably cuts all the way through the wall, allowing access for only the most beautiful of intruders such as myself. I slide off Shadowmere with the stunning grace of a drunken toddler and place Madanach delicately atop my head. He kneads his knead-le claws into my head and makes a charming nest in my hair, in which he promptly curls up to sleep.

"Would you like to gallivant the countryside or eat the stables?" I ask Shadowmere gravely, and he stamps a hoof.

 **I shall do both,** Shadowmere informs me as a plume of flame flickers from his nostrils. **I am strong, and no stable shall contain me.** As I watch in breathless awe at my horsie's magnificence, Shadowmere rears and shakes his handsome mane from side to side.

"You are the most handsome horsie in existence," I inform him, my throat clogged with rising tears.

Shadowmere paws at the ground and glances away. **I… yes, I am,** he mumbles. **N-now I shall… devastate the countryside with flames and terror. Because I am strong.**

"I love you," I sob, and he nuzzles my face with his nostrils still leaking flame that dries every tear and leaves salty residue that I can eat for dinner.

 **Goodbye, my master,** he says gravely. **Until we meet again.** Shadowmere takes a few prancing steps away from the walls, then pauses and glances back. **I will not wander far,** he assures me. **The way I said that made it sound like I was wandering far away. I am not, so do not worry. A-anyway… off I go.** Shadowmere shakes his mane again, neighs bravely, and gallops a few paces farther. **I will be right here,** he tells me haughtily. **Not a single creature shall survive if it runs past me.**

"Good boy," I tell him. I place a few strawberries, bottles of pickled leeks, and pumpkins on the ground just in case he needs a snack, and he eyes the pile eagerly. The moment I turn towards the gate, I hear him sneaking back to eat his rightful rewards for being such a good, fierce, handsome boy.

Ma'dran is already standing at the gate and wearing his dark disguise to sneak into racist cities, so I trot up to him. Something seems off about the gate, as though it is incomplete, but I cannot determine what. _Maybe there were supposed to be dead people hanging from the walls like dried leeks,_ I determine after wasting a boring moment wondering about the misses.

"I shall soon be Mrs. Odahviing," I mumble as I throw open the heavy gate and return to my home away from home, the home of my friends and of the best soup, the home of the city of Mercer and the person of Shouty, the home of sewers. "…Someone should be ogling my breasts," I realize with a soft frown as I wander towards the sewer drain whose location I remember from my drunken excursion decades ago.

Ma'dran makes a choking noise. I nearly smack him in the throat so that he coughs up the peanut that is killing him, but he manages to escape my wrath because he coughs nevermore. "This one… is unsure how to respond to that," Ma'dran tells me in a strangled voice.

"You just did," I point out.

"Yes, but…"

"My friends!" I abruptly cry before Ma'dran can continue his response to that. "Bed and Cupboard!"

Ma'dran gazes at me with patient confusion

"My friends escaped the gate!" I gasp with a graceful dance indicating the joy of remembrance. "The community is no longer protected by my sexual favors!"

Ma'dran gazes at me with patient-er confusion.

"I shall-eth scour the land for my brave knights," I inform him, "my first friends in Mercer. First, though, I'll find them a noble steed in the sewers."

"Oh," Ma'dran says. Since he understands me perfectly, I bounce to the sewers with my trusty friends on my head or at my side.

"Hey, are you a Khajit?" an armored person who reminds me of Hadvar before he lost his clothes says, running up to us with metal clangs.

"You should really phase iron out of your diet," I tell him disapprovingly as I gesture wildly at his clanging pseudo-skin of metal. "Since I don't eat meat, I don't have to wear all that armor, and I can look beautiful instead of like a fat spoon."

"H-hold on, that's not the issue here," the guard stammers, now paying attention to me, as is required of him.

"It is," I insist, " 'cause if you don't stop eating the bloody flesh of the innocent, then you'll die of drowning in all the metal, and no one loves you enough to pay for your funeral."

"Geez…" the guard mutters. "That was uncalled for."

"No, _I_ call it death metal," I rebuke him, "and no one loves you enough to pay for your funeral."

"No need to… r-repeat it," the guard says as his eyes glow with the salty waters of a wailing infant.

"No one loves you enough to pay for your funeral," I repeat so that his eyes do not explode into ferrets like my screamy stick would make them do. "No one loves you enough to pay for your funeral."

"You're… you're right," the guard sniffles as he stares blankly at the cobblestone on the ground between us. "I… need to write to my mother," he whispers with tears streaming from his eyes. "I need to write my mother." The guard rushes away, his wailing sobs echoing throughout the city as though he or it were an infant or a city, and I feel myself tear up as well.

"That was… effective," Ma'dran comments. When he looks at me, however, he jumps slightly. "Why is Liar crying?" he asks nervously.

"I want to see my dad and my brother and my sister and myself," I tell him, nearly turning into an infant city.

"Ah, yes," Ma'dran murmurs. "Family is indeed important. Once this one and Liar reach the destination, perhaps Liar might write to them?"

"No," I say firmly, my growing city of babies forgotten. "I'll draw to them. Writing is for guards, signposts, and the _dovahkiin_."

"This one looks forwards to seeing your pictures," Ma'dran says with a soft chuckle.

I nod with satisfaction and continue my bouncing to my favorite sewer in the world.

xXxXxXx

The two skeevers I am dragging behind me struggle vainly, but my chains of daisies prevent them from escaping. _I found two mighty steeds for my knighty meads,_ I think proudly, and the skeevers squeak with happiness that almost sounds like fear while I pull them towards the firelight. When faced with a metal door, I frown because both of my hands are occupied with the fuzzy tails of the beautiful animals.

Ma'dran scoots past me and tries to open the door, but the handle seems stuck. It has always opened easily for me, so I lean down to press my lips on the door knob and breathe on it, waiting for it to remember my touch. Nothing happens.

Furious, I kick the door as hard as I can, and the sound echoes through the air. I am gearing up to kick it again when it creaks open. _Oh,_ I realize, _it has a foot fetish._

"Liar?" the door asks, sounding strangely surprised, as though it did not recognize whose feet had just kicked it sexily.

"I'm Liar," I remind the door as is only polite.

"Damn, it's been a while," the door says, and then it opens wider before turning into a Breton whom I vaguely recognize.

"Cynric," I recall. "Didn't you disappear into solitude like a mountain hermit?"

"Yeah…" Cynric says sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Come on in."

Cynric steps aside, revealing that the door has disappeared completely, and I carefully step through the portal, ready to hit it with a skeever if it decides to reappear and attack. Cynric swivels his head back and forth and blinks, his gaze fixing on Ma'dran.

"Who is—wait, are those…" Cynric trails off, this time looking at my newest steeds. "Never mind," he sighs.

Cynric turns, and I trot behind him, my skeevers dragging behind me, and Ma'dran slinks behind me so that we are a line of schoolchildren but without the rope that will prevent us from losing each other. _Where is the teacher?_ I wonder.

"Guildmaster!" Cynric shouts, apparently searching for the teacher as well.

"Shut up!" a heartrendingly familiar voice yells out. "If you don't, then I'll make you a decoration on the shrine of Boethia so that I can take a damn nap."

"Fenri!" I shriek, instantly dropping the skeevers who jump to maul the someone whom I do not care about.

"Lillie!" Fenri shrieks from across the sewer. "Lillie, darling!" I search for my beloved sister, growing panicked when I do not instantly find her, but she appears in the gloom ahead of me. I have no time to react before she drags me into a hug so tight that I actually feel it hurt.

"Am I dreaming?" I ask dazedly, my voice muffled by my face's position of being squished against her shoulder. I gnaw on the shirt in front of me and am comforted by the taste of the dry leather. _That's how I know it's real_. "You're real," I inform Fenri in case she is doubtful.

Fenri laughs and pulls away from me. She gazes at me with a warm yet sharp gaze, inspecting every inch of me and mentally storing it for some reason that will become apparent at some time in the future, probably. "You haven't written a _single_ letter," she scolds me, but that cannot be right. I clearly remember thinking about drawing a letter sometime. "Pa is out of his _mind_ with worry, and Evoshin was ready to raise an army to storm Skyrim."

I laugh lightly at that. "Where are they?" I look around. That man peeking above his counter could be pa if he were a Dunmer and also not armed with a broom and looked and acted completely different.

"I'm the only one who actually made the trip," Fenri says. She gives me a disapproving look that means I am about to receive a lecture. Instead of saying anything, though, she holds out her hand. Out of reflex, I hold out mine as well. "No, take the papers, Lillie," Fenri says, so I do.

The papers she was holding have a few words on them and a little wax thing on the corner plus some little ink smudges about. I have never seen them before in my life.

"They're your visa papers," Fenri explains. "You forgot them."

"All right," I acknowledge. "I'm good at that."

"These are what should have gotten you over the border," she adds.

"But I'm already over the border," I point out.

"Yes, but now you're over the border _legally._ "

"Does that make me any more over the border?"

"No, not really."

"Then why should it matter? I'm over the border whether or not there's a paper saying I'm over the border."

"True, but this will let you get home without murdering border patrol, and on the off-chance that someone actually bothers checking your citizenship, you'll need these."

"But I've already murdered border patrol," I counter.

"There are other border patrollers," she counters my counter.

"Then I'll just kill them too."

"You could, but you don't have to if you have these papers."

"But what if I _want_ to?"

"Then, by all means, kill away!" Fenri cries delightedly. "After all, they're just border patrol, haha."

"I love you!"

"Aw, I love you too, honeysuckle, darling, angel," she coos. "Oh, but the real reason I came here..." She rummages through the pack she has casually slung over one shoulder. "Uhh... aha!" She pulls out a stuffed animal about the size of my head, and I shriek in delight.

"Mehrunes Dragon!" I cry out as I snatch the fuzzy red _dovah_ from my sister's arms. "I missed you!"

"I got worried you wouldn't be able to sleep without him," Fenri frets. "You forgot him and just about everything else father packed for you." She looks me up and down and sighs. "Like a jacket—remember what he said about getting frostbite?"

"It kills the mood," I recite.

"No, that it fucking hurts like a cow sitting on your face in a non-sexy way," Fenri returns.

"Really?" I inquire. "Is there a non-sexy way to do that?"

"I hope you're joking," she says before looking up at my head. "Oh, and who's this sweet thing?" she inquires.

"That's Ma'dran," I tell her, pointing to the actual Khajiit standing a short ways behind me.

"Hello, Ma'dran," Fenri calls to him, "but I actually meant the kitten."

"That's Ma'dran," I repeat

"Hello again, Ma'dran, but I actually meant the small kitten sitting on your head."

"Oh," I realize, "that's Madanach, True Lord of the Fursworn, the King in Fuzz."

"What a little cutie!" Fenri gasps. "Just like my little Lillie."

Madanach meows.

"Yes, hello to you as well, your Grace," Fenri says politely.

Madanach meows again, and Fenri nods, her gaze filled with nothing but the greatest solemnity.

"I will pass that on," she says gravely before turning to me. "Lillie, Madanach, True Lord of the Fursworn, the King in Fuzz, just informed me that he loves you to bits."

I sniffle. "I love you too, Madanach." Madanach purrs loudly and rubs his little kitten soft velvet kitten head against my nose. I almost break down into tears right there.

"Guildmaster!" someone shouts. "Should we... Oh, is that Liar?"

"Delvin!" I squeal and dash over to hug my Breton friend tightly.

"Damn... feel even bigger 'n they look."

"Do you want to repeat that?" Fenri asks. She has drawn her double handaxes and is glaring fiercely at poor Delvin. "I've always thought pig tongues tasted pretty good."

Meanwhile, I am still looking for Shouty. "Where's the Guildmaster?" I ask confusedly, wondering if he is still counting his coins so that he can see his little book with the words.

"Right here," Fenri replies.

"Eh? Shouty?" I peer closer, but it is still Fenri. "Did my sister eat you?" I inquire. "That's what I wanted to do!"

"Oh, did you meet Namira worshippers?" Fenri inquires. "Strange lot, but very welcoming."

"I made sure to cook my food first," I inform her.

"Good for you! Also, I'm the Guildmaster now!"

I gasp dramatically. "What? How? Did you kill Shouty?"

"Yes, actually."

"I wanted to do that!"

"Aw, sorry hun!" Fenri cries. "He was talking shit about my baby sister, though, so he had to get an axe through the brain. It was pretty messy, so it's good you weren't here."

"Ugh, I can imagine..." I mumble, "but still, I wanted to know if he screams as loud as he shouts."

"Shout _ed_."

"I dunno anyone named Ed, but I did get Ted a noble steed."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find an Ed somewhere!" Fenri reassures me. "Anyway, I axed Shouty, and some of these guys were a bit put-out by that, so they tried to lock me into their vault to suffocate and die."

"You bastards!" I shout, waving my mace at anyone who dares to be somewhat near me. "Never trust a redhead!"

"Lillie, let me finish, and then you can get revenge," Fenri gently chides me.

"All right, sorry." I obediently sheathe my mace again.

"No need to apologize, sweetheart," she says warmly. "So, they tried to lock me in, but their vault was empty! No riches to be found!"

I gasp at this plot twist, and Fenri smiles.

"They let me investigate," she says, "and guess what we found!"

I tilt my head so that I can think very hard. "Uh... a kitten?" I wonder. "A screaming stick? A missing mister?"

"All of those sound much more interesting than what we actually found," Fenri admits, "which was most of the vault's treasure."

"I thought you said the vault was empty," I point out, confused by the plot twist's double-cross.

"It was," Fenri assures me. "We found the treasure in _Mercer's_ house."

"Huh? The city?" I look around me at the smattering of people staring at Fenri and me. "The city has a house?" I breathe, in awe. "Doesn't a city hold houses?"

"Sorry, Shouty's house," Fenri corrects herself swiftly. "I get confused by all the names sometimes."

"Me too," I assure her sympathetically. "So Shouty decided he had a better vault and was a greedy hunter?"

"So it seemed," Fenri agrees. "And then, this random lady called Karliah showed up and yelled at me for killing her prey."

"What?" I gasp. "Who'd you kill? Border patrol? Mutated pig-vampires?"

"Nah, Shouty."

"Aw," I pout, "I wanted to do that."

"I know, sorry," Fenri says sincerely, "but so did Karliah, apparently. The lady waited twenty-five sodding years to make some half-assed plan to maybe draw Mercer out and paralyze him or something," she huffs. "Ridiculous."

"Sounds like it," I huff. "Ridiculous."

"Hey, I'm right here!" a hooded Dunmer woman that I only just now noticed yells. Well, she whispers loudly. "I was being _cautious_ , okay? I needed all the evidence before confronting the Guild!"

"In over two decades," Fenri snaps, "you never once thought to look at Gallus's body, until you suddenly did and found a journal. Hell, all you had to do was go back to the Guild with Mercer twenty-five years ago, and you wouldn't have looked like a guilty piece of shit! Just could've showed the Guild Gallus's wound and matched it to Mercer's blades or something! Boethia's sake, your stupidity makes me ashamed to be a Dark Elf!"

"I was being _cautious_ and _smart_!" the Dunmer lady complains.

"Sure, sure, by letting Nocturnal stay pissed at the Guild for a quarter of a century while you piddled about in dark caves and angsted," Fenri scoffs.

"The Skeleton Key business wasn't my fault!"

Fenri rolls her eyes. "Yeah. Right. Sure."

"Fenri!" I shout. "You met Nocturnal? _The_ Nocturnal? With her ravens of darkness and pretty dress and all?"

"Yup!" Fenri cheers. "I'm her Agent's of Strife now, a Nightingale bound to her in life and death. Also, I'm the Guildmaster now because I exposed the whole Shouty plot and 'cause no one has the balls to step up and take responsibility for their own damn guild."

"But... aren't you already pledged to Boethia?"

"Yes, and Azura, Hermaeus Mora, Clavicus Vile, Malacath and..." Fenri taps her chin thoughtfully. "I think that's all, but I can't be sure," she admits. "You know what kind of trouble I get into when I'm drunk."

I nod sagely. "You'll have a lot of Daedra fighting for your soul."

"It'll be a good show, at least," Fenri laughs.

"You deserve nothing less."

"Ugh, I missed you to bits!" Fenri clasps her hands in front of her face very happily. "You are just... such a doll."

"You are too," I tell Mehrunes Dragon. "I missed you too," I tell Fenri.

"Any exciting stories from Skyrim so far?"

"Oh!" I gasp, delighted to ramble about myself. "Cynric and I went to the storm roads and I met a sparrow child who sent me geese to grill! And I made friends with Ted and Robert and Brynjolf and Cynric and Delvin and Keerava and Revyn Sadri and that one guard with the stray dog and Sahloknir and Uncle Paarthy and that one _dovah_ that decided not to kill me and Odah and Hadvar and Ma'dran and Madanach and Sharpened Ear and snows and Beoladventure and—" I turn to the sweeping man. "Oi, broom coward!" I snap. "You promised to make mead a drink!"

The sweeping coward jolted nervously. "How do I…"

"Make my baby sister her drink!" Fenri snapped. "If Lillie says you promised, then you did!"

"Y-yes, Guildmaster!" the sweep squeaked. "Right away."

I smile brilliantly at my sister. "You are my favorite _ever_ ," I tell her gravely. "Ever."

"And you're mine, my darling," Fenri coos. She pulls me into another tight hug, and I hug her right back. "Now, let me cut that hair of yours. It looks…" Fenri trails off, clicks her tongue, and shakes her head as I gaze at her adoringly. "You are perfect," Fenri tells me, and I squirm with delight even as she draws a knife and begins trimming my perfect hair. Madanach meows and descends to my arms, where he returns right back to falling asleep.

Everything is right with the world.


End file.
